


The Chase

by lyricalsoul



Series: How I Married Mycroft [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Father Holmes is briliant in his own right, Fluff and Angst, Greg Chases, Greg loves Mycroft, Greg pines, Greg's arse is luscious, How I Married Mycroft, Kissing, Luxury beach hotels, Luxury penthouses, M/M, Malibu Inn, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft has done a runner, Mycroft is an arse, Mycroft is cagey, Mycroft is deep throat, Mycroft likes it rough, Mystrade is getting married, OC's - Dancing women, OC's - Grant Lestrade (Greg's brother), OMC's - Freeform, Rough Sex, Sally is crushing on Anthea, Sherlock likes tarts, Snogging, Snogging in the sand, Tantric Sex, The Vernet Foundation, This is a prequel, Tuxedo porn, clothes ripped off, happily, in a sex way, they're married, watches make good engagement rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-03-07 10:17:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 82,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3171212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricalsoul/pseuds/lyricalsoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, you were wondering why it took three weeks for Mycroft to say yes to Greg's proposal (in The Favour)...? Here's part one of the answer. </p><p>In which Greg presses, Mycroft is sexy, and Sherlock is... Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Ought to Be With Me

**Author's Note:**

> It's an update! Finally got my hands to cooperate, so here's the next bit. In three chapters. Maybe.
> 
> Thanks to you all for your comments, encouragement, and cheering on. It means the world to me.
> 
> Thank you, Edenlost. You know why. 
> 
> The title of chapter one is an Al Green song, which inspired me for this bit.
> 
> This is part of series:
> 
> 1\. Date Night (married Mystrade)  
> 2\. The Favour (how it started)  
> 3\. The Chase (how you catch a big fish)
> 
> No, you don't have to read them all. But you should. Doooo it!

Three weeks after Valentine’s Day, and life has taken a rotten turn.

The weekend was wonderful. A decadent buffet-style breakfast in our suite with his parents (money sure does talk), a few hands of high-stakes poker (won a tidy sum, thanks to Mycroft), a soak in that enormous tub in the en-suite (complete with bubbles), and a shopping trip with Margaret (Ed may have been faking a sore throat, but I’ll never know...) I hated to see them go…

_“It was a delight meeting you, Greg.” Mycroft’s mum says, with a kiss to my cheek. “You take care of our Mikey. He works too hard. Make him do something fun at least once a month, won’t you?”_

_“I’ll try, Margaret.” I laugh, and shake Edmund’s hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sir.”_

_“And you, Greg,” he replies with a big smile. “Don’t forget what I’ve told you.”_

_I nod. “I won’t.”_

_Margaret looks from me to Mycroft, and smiles. “I don’t expect an invitation to the ceremony, but I do expect an announcement so that I can send a gift. You hear me, Mike?”_

_“You could have named me Mike, if it was what you were going to call me,” Mycroft sasses with a sigh and an eye roll. “If you two wouldn’t mind getting into the car… you have a flight to catch, and this time, I will not pull any strings should you be late.”_

_His mum swats his arm, and sneaks a quick kiss to his cheek. “Behave, Mycroft…”_

He went off to work on something he ‘couldn’t discuss’, and I prowled around the hotel, sat in the bar and drank a bit, got chatted up by a pop star and a royal, then went back to the room. I ate a nice, thick steak, watched some American football, and went to bed. He popped in and out at various intervals, but always in a rush, just stopping to change clothes, and to make sure I was all right.

He was avoiding me, I was certain, but I refused to let it bother me.

I finally cornered him Sunday evening….

 

_“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to devote more time to you this weekend,” he says, looking over his trousers with a critical eye. He plucks at the creases with a frown, and sighs. “My cleaner is become quite lax in his duties.”_

_“Ship him out to Outer Mongolia,” I quip. “That’ll teach him.”_

_He gives me a look of exasperation. “As if we have that type of treaty with China.”_

_“Anyway, all you’d have to do is look at him with that sour look you do so well. Scare him shitless, he’ll never mess up again.”_

_“I hope you didn’t spend your poker winnings on drink, Gregory.”_

_“Nope. And thanks for that, by the way.” I laugh. “I’ll never play poker with you or your mum again.”_

_“Maths geniuses are always useful,” he says with a quick, tight smile. “You did rather well on your own, though.” He puts on a crisp, white shirt, and frowns. “No.” He takes the shirt off, and returns it to the hanger. He frowns at the row of shirts hanging there, and selects a blue shirt that’s so lightly coloured, it’s nearly white. “Yes.” He puts it on, and smiles. “Perfect.”_

_“Was there a difference? No, don’t answer,” I say before he can start. “I don’t want to be put to sleep while you hold forth about fabrics and_ _colours and power, thank you.”_

_“Yes, well… I was only going to remark that a white shirt would send the wrong message. Such trivialities seem to hold weight in some countries.”_

_And we’ve avoided the topic long enough, I think. I clear my throat. “So…?”_

_Mycroft finishes buttoning his shirt, and tucks it into his trousers. As he slides his braces over his shoulders, he gives me an assessing look. “Gregory.”_

_“I’m not trying to pressure you, and I’m cool … well, mostly cool, with the answer being no. We can chalk it up to the spirit of the day, if that’s what it is. But, I don’t want to assume anything, all right? You have to say if it’s yes, or no.”_

_“I…” His mobile chimes, and he glances at it. “Unfortunately, I have to go in and handle this situation, Gregory. Feel free to stay until morning. I highly doubt if I’ll be able to make it back before then. Thank you for assisting me. It’s been a pleasure.”_

_Disappointment hits me in the gut like a punch from a heavyweight. “That’s a no, then?”_

_“I… I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for you at this time.”_

_“But it’s not off the table?” I know I sound desperate, but if there’s a chance I can have him, I’m taking it. “I mean, you not having an answer is no small thing.”_

_He does that blinking thing, which means I’ve managed to confound him again. “I don’t understand why you would you want such a thing. I’m hardly your usual type, and as you put it, ‘out of your league’. Is the third time the charm?”_

_“Seeing as how you’re not in the same class as any of the women I’ve married, no. I might be a bit out of your league, but we fit, don’t you think? Look at how well we got on this weekend.”_

_“You weren’t with me this weekend, save a few hours here and there.”_

_“I didn’t mind. But, I think if we were together, you’d… maybe you’d say ‘hey, love, I’ve got a conference call with Iceland’, so I wouldn’t expect you.”_

_“’Hey love?’” He grimaces. “You will never hear me utter those words.”_

_“I was being hypothetical, you cock.”_

_“You’re very prickly.”_

_“You make me prickly. None of my wives made me prickly. Yeah, I know we don’t agree on much of anything, and we’re chalk and cheese – well, more like the prince and the pauper – but I think that only adds spice to the relationship. You rub me the wrong way, you make my head hurt, and you’re so arrogant, I want to punch you. But on the other side of that, you make me want to pull you close and kiss you until you can’t breathe, to lie next to you and hold you, to make love to you until we both pass out.”_

_“Sounds horrid, and I don't – ”_

_“No, let me finish, because if I don’t, I’ll probably never get the chance again. From the first time I saw you, I couldn’t get you off my mind. Wondering if you had anyone to take care of you, if you’d consider me in that fashion. Couldn’t shake it, even though I got married again. But I think it would be perfect with you, and I’ve never said that to anyone before. It’s just a feeling I’ve got.”_

_“Feelings,” he snorts. “While I will admit to being more… shall we say, tolerant of you than most, I would not go so far as to say I care for you. I don’t do caring, feelings, nor do I do relationships. I do not believe that caring is not an advantage, and it would not be fair to you.”_

_“You gave me Chelsea buns, so stop going on about not having feelings. And don’t say you deduced it, because maybe you did, but to give them to me, knowing they were my favourites when I was a lad… that smacks of caring, mate. Not to mention arranging dancing at The Ritz for your parents and helping your mum educate women. Caring may not be an advantage, but for us mere mortals, a little caring goes a long way.”_

_He rolls his eyes. “If you had any sense, you would let this ridiculous notion go. I would drive you mad within a week. I am far, far worse than Sherlock could ever be, Gregory. Trust me, you do not want this.”_

_“Mycroft… I can’t walk away from you, so don’t ask me to.” I blow out a breath, frustrated. “Look, none of what you said matters, or changes how I feel. I mean, ideally, you want an equal love, but I’m not above taking what’s on the table. I’ll take a seventy-thirty relationship with someone who gets me over fifty-fifty with someone who’s full of shit.”_

_“Perhaps settling for less is why your marriages failed,” he says archly._

_“Low blow,” I shrug, “but you’re probably right. But that’s got nothing to do with us. And if you didn’t want me to feel this way, you shouldn’t have touched me. Only made it worse.”_

_“I have enemies,” he persists, and I find that hilariously endearing, really. “People who would think nothing of taking you, and… well, yes. And then there’s the added difficulty of being with me, and all that entails. It wouldn’t be ideal.” He gives me a piercing look with those intense blue eyes, then raises an eyebrow. “A shame, though.” He moves away, but I grab him by the braces, and pull him forward. “Gregory…”_

_“Shh…” I press a kiss to the slight dimple in his chin, then just rest my lips on his. “You think too much.” I coax his lips open with my tongue, and he lets me in. I kiss him, slow and easy, sweet and hot, wishing I could lay him down and have my way with him._

_He’s stiff and unyielding at first, then as I deepen the kiss, he gives in, and it’s hot as fuck. He goes practically boneless against me, and his hands go down my back to cup my arse._

_“Mmm…” I moan into his mouth. I want to touch him, taste him… my hands move across the soft cotton of his shirt, wanting to feel his skin, but there’s too much – braces, vests… damn it. I settle for pushing his braces aside and rubbing my hands up and down his back._

_“Look at you,” I say as he shivers at my touch, and his hands tighten on my arse. “Always in control, never caring, never letting go… I want to unravel you, want to see what you’re like in bed. Do you let go or do you hold it all in?”_

_He shakes his head. “Neither…”_

_“You’re probably wild as fuck,” I go on. “Clawing and biting when you’re touched right, yeah?” I put my hands on his waist, and roll my hips against his in a lazy rhythm. “You’ve got me burning, Mycroft. You’re so sexy, so bloody irresistible, with all your long legs, and arms, and beautiful eyes. Christ....”_

_“Mm,” is all he says, but he moves his hips in time with mine. He ducks his head, and presses his lips to my neck. “So lovely…” His teeth graze my pulse point, then he latches on, sucking gently._

_“Mycroft,” I moan, and slide my hands down to his pert arse, and grind against him. “I want you… want to strip you naked and press you down on that ridiculously soft bed and make love to you for hours. Nice and slow, since you’ve not been had… god, please say you’ll let me…”I lick his jawline, then gently bite his chin._

_“We’ll…” He moans, and his hips move downward sharply. “I don’t know…”_

_“We already know the answer is yes, don’t we?” I whisper, nipping at his ear._

_“We have to stop,” he says sternly – well, as sternly as one can while dry-humping. “I cannot do this now.”_

_“Then you should tell your body,” I laugh. “That’s your hips moving, not mine.”_

_With a blush, he stops moving. “Why do you want this, Gregory?”_

_I put a finger on the crease between his brows. “This. I hate seeing it.”_

_“Ah, well… it’s part and parcel of my existence. And that’s rather arrogant of you really, thinking that you’re the man for the job.”_

_“Even Zeus had a caregiver, didn’t he?”_

_“No.”_

_“Well, mythology was never my strong suit, so whatever.”_

_“We can have sex without the burden of being married, if that’s your motivation. I’m not as old-fashioned as you believe.”_

_I laugh at that. “You really think I can’t find someone to fuck? Honestly, Mycroft… I can get sex… hell, if that was all I was after, I could call that lonely doctor bloke, and have it off with him.”_

_His eyes darken to a stormy greyish-blue. “That would not be wise.”_

_Oh, is that jealousy from Mister Caring is Not an Advantage? “No?”_

_“Still mine,” he growls, and his head whips forward to suck at my neck again._

_“And this is you, not caring? Giving me love bites, snogging me, being jealous? Not that I’m complaining, mind you…” In fact, him sucking my neck has got me hard as stone, and if he doesn’t stop moving, I’m going to explode. “Mycroft…”_

_“Utterly bewitching.” His voice is pitched lower, softer, and full of desire._

_I pull back and look at him. “And that’s what I like to see, that smile right there.”_

_“I’m not smiling,” he counters._

_“You smile every time I touch you. In fact,” I say, tilting my neck further to the side to accommodate his biting, “I’ve never seen a bigger smile than when I kissed you for the first time.” I shudder as his teeth graze over my pulse point. “Oh, Mycroft… you make me so…”_

_He lifts his head. “So…?”_

_“So.” I press a kiss to his adam’s apple, and wish to god I could loosen his tie, and lick him all over. “So, so…”_

_Unfortunately, his phone chimes again, and he sighs. “I would like nothing more than to explore this… thing between us, Gregory; however, duty calls.”_

_I take note that he doesn’t move away. “You’ve marked me.”_

_“Hm.” He sucks at the same spot on my neck, and I’m sure I’m going to have a big hickey in the morning. “Irresistible.”_

_“And that’s well above the collar,” I protest half-heartedly. His lips feel heavenly on my neck, and I want to feel them all over. “You… I want to make love to you. You should let me have you. All you have to do is say yes…”_

_“I… Gregory, please.”_

_“Sorry.” I rub my cheek against the softness of his shirt, and take a step back. “I am achingly hard right now.”_

_“Don’t let me stop you from your pleasure.” He puts a hand to my crotch, and rubs softly. “I could assist, perhaps?”_

_“Oh, no…. when I come, I want you naked beneath me, begging. Thrashing about, sweaty, flushed, gagging for it. I’d come three or four times. Imagine that.”_

_“You’re fifty.” He laps at the mark on my neck with the flat of his tongue. “I’ll give you once; maybe twice.”_

_“For you, twice. Once from your long fingers wrapped around me, the second from your lips, and the third inside you.”_

_“Mmm… you said twice.” He presses a knee between my thighs and smiles. “Three times is ambitious, I think.”_

_“I’m fifty, and am very keen. And have access to Viagra, if needed.”_

_“Stacking the deck.” His phone chimes again, and he steps away. “Oh, Gregory, I do so wish I could linger.”_

_“So, am I at ‘maybe’ yet?” I look at him, trying to assess where I stand, but his face has gone blank._

_“You are quite the distraction. And you’re quite the honest, hard-working, can’t-be-bribed sort, so getting involved with me might tarnish your good name. Whispers through the halls of the Yard that powers behind the scenes have contributed to your success, to your rise in rank. What would you do if you one your cases came under… matters… in which some of the entities I work with may have had a hand? I‘m not always kind, and if it is in the best interest of The Crown, I am not always inclined to do what is universally considered the ‘right thing’. You are such a moral man, I do think that I would break you. And Sherlock would never forgive me, should that happen.”_

_“Well, that has got to be the best ‘it’s-not-you-it’s-me speech’ I’ve ever heard.”_

_“I am simply being honest,” he says, looking at me with a slight frown. “There isn’t an intelligence agency in the world in which I do not have at least a finger. Our worlds are bound to collide, and I can say without a doubt that you wouldn’t favour the outcome.”_

_“I’m sure I wouldn’t,” I admit with a sigh. “But I’m willing to chance it, Mycroft. I’m not stupid, and didn’t come up in the ranks without knowing how the game is played. I am as committed to my job as you are. And to Sherlock. And if by some small chance, you do manage to break me… well, I suppose you’ll have to fix me, too.”_

_“Brave words, Detective Inspector.” He moves away from me, and loops a silky tie – blue with light dots – around his neck, and knots a perfect Windsor without looking, the arrogant sod. Then he slides into his waistcoat, and I watch in fascination as he loops his watch chain and drops it in the pocket._

_“Should arrest you for making porn in front of an officer.” I might be drooling at this point. Never thought a bloke putting on clothes would be so sexy. “Bloody sexy, you getting all poshed up.”_

_He shakes his head, and puts on his jacket. “You are incredibly biased. And I must be off. Do feel free to avail yourself of any of the amenities you’d like. I’m told that the hot oil massage is quite relaxing.”_

_“The only hands I want on me are yours,” I say, leaning in to nuzzle his neck. “So, tell me.”_

_He sighs and folds his pocket square into a perfect triangle. Or it might be a swan. Whatever it is, he arranges it in his jacket pocket perfectly. “Gregory… why?”_

_“I don’t know. I just… when you asked me to help you, it was just a fantasy, you know? A quick dip in the deep water, get my feet wet, but when I kissed you, when you touched me, when we danced… I got pulled under, and I can’t… I want it all. I want to kiss you, to dance with you, to wake up next to you, and to be there when Sherlock fucks something up, and you need someone.” I shove a hand through my hair. “I fell hard, and fell fast, and I can’t blame you, but you started it, and I’m aiming to finish it. Foolish sentiment, laced with feelings, but it’s all I’ve got.”_

_“I don’t need taking care of. I’m not lonely. I’m not the sort to lean on anyone. I’ve already told you that I do not like people, and that I find most of humanity dull, uninspiring, and useless. Again, no offence to you, but you are in the category of humanity.”_

_“Bollocks.” His words hurt, and any sane person would run, but I’m not sane – I’m… oh, shit. In love. “I think…” I stop and swallow past the lump in my throat. “I think you’re saying words you don’t believe. It’s not good for a man like you to be alone. If you give me a chance to prove it, I’ll show you just how good it can be to have someone to put your back against when it all gets to be too much. Just… think about it, yeah? If you don’t like it, I’m sure you have the means to undo it.”_

_“I haven’t time for this,” he growls, and before I can blink, he’s got me turned with my back to him, his arms tight around my waist, hips flush against my arse. “You’re a goddamned temptation, Gregory Lestrade, and are distracting me from my work.” His lips go back to the mark on my neck, and he sucks at it, probably making the mark bigger, the nutter. “I don’t want to hurt you, even though I typically would not care should I do so. I am not… no good can come of this.” He lips are at the nape of my neck, sucking another mark on me. “Just lovely…”_

_“Please…” I let my head drop, wanting him to mark every bit of my neck he can reach. “Mycroft…”_

_“Not now…” He drops his arms and steps away just as his mobile chimes again. “I must go. I will call you as soon as I am available to do so.” He presses a kiss to the throbbing mark on my neck. “I will… consider your question. It isn’t something I can do lightly, because should I marry you, there won’t be any going back or divorcing, Gregory. Be sure it’s what you want.” He gently pushes me aside, and is gone before I can respond._

_I go into the en suite to start the shower, and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Swollen lips, hard dick, big love bite on my neck… Shit. I lean against the sink with a sigh. “Be careful what you wish for, Greg.”_

_***_

And now, three weeks later, I’m lying on my sofa like a lump of mashed parsnips, wondering if I was a fool.

No… no wondering about it. I am a fool. A besotted, bloody ridiculous fool.

I haven’t heard a word from Mycroft since that day. I know he said he’d contact me as soon as he could, but I think I’ve been had.

I was fine for the first week. Took some good-natured ribbing about the three love bites above my collar, and worked hard at clearing the mess on my desk that piled up from taking off two work days. I may have glanced at my mobile more than I should have – checking that it was on, that it was charged, and that my text and voicemail services were working, but I was fine.

Week two, and still having heard no word made me jumpy. I was torn between wanting to march around to the Diogenes Club and giving him the business, and giving up.

Sherlock and John came around to the Yard to finish up some paperwork for a case, and I only barely keep from asking about Mycroft. Sherlock kept giving me looks, but thankfully, didn’t say anything about me jumping every time someone’s mobile went off.

And now here it is, week three. No word, and I admit defeat. Shame, that. I think we would have been good together.

I take another sip of my scotch – Macallan – Mycroft’s brand, and sigh.

“What are you doing?”

“Bloody fuck, Sherlock!” I brush at the splash of scotch on my shirt, and frown up at Sherlock. “What?”

“It’s obvious that you’re lying on the sofa in ratty track pants and a soiled, smelly t-shirt, but why?”

I sip more scotch, and shake my head.

He steps closer, and frowns. “You’re not ill, are you? No… you’re rarely ill, and even then, you don’t skive off from work.”

“Have you come round to state the obvious, or is there a point to this visit?”

“I was bored, but not any longer.” He unwraps his scarf, tosses it aside, and slides out of his coat. “Let me see your fingers.”

I lift the middle fingers of both hands. “Go away. I’m fine.”

“You are most definitely not fine, Granger. And I need…” I watch as his eyes narrow, and he looks down at me with that annoying piercing look of his. “Oh… something’s upset you. What is it?”

I don’t even bother to correct my name. He’ll never remember anyway. “It’s nothing. You can go home now. Thanks for stopping.”

“You’re presenting me with a puzzle, Lestrade?” he asks gleefully, spinning around in a circle. “You are so decidedly dull, it shouldn’t take long, but it will give me something to focus on. When did you first notice… whatever it is you’re feeling?”

“Bugger off, Sherlock,” I say, knocking back the rest of my drink. “Nothing to tell, nothing for you to assist with.”

And with that, I may as well have held up a sign that said ‘in love with your brother’ because he gives me the look – the deducing my whole life look- and then smiles. “This is about Mycroft. What did he do, Lestrade? Spare no detail, however trivial.”

“Details of what?” I sit up. “There’s nothing to tell. We went on a date for Valentine’s Day. It went well, it ended. Back to reality.” I pour more scotch in my glass, and sip it. Nice. Smokey, smooth, rich. Just like… oh, god, I’m pathetic.

“Interesting choice of words, ‘back to reality’.” He looks at my glass. “And you drinking scotch – Mycroft’s drink of choice – means you aren’t back to anything. Details, Lestrade… I cannot make bricks without clay.”

“Go away, Sherlock.”

“Greene…”

“Greg, damn it. Or stop trying to be human, and stick to Lestrade, hm?”

“Oh, for god’s sake, are you **_pining_** for my brother, Greg?” He grimaces at that. “Are you certain that’s your name? It doesn’t feel right.”

“Am I sure that my name is Greg? I was right, you Holmeses are mental. And no, I’m not pining for your bloody brother.”

He snorts at that. “A bit too much protesting, if I may point it out. So… you got caught up in the spirit of the day, and now you fancy my brother. What a horrid turn of events. I warned you this would happen. You never listen.”

“Bugger off,” I repeat.

“I would love to, Lestrade, but unfortunately, you in this… condition is unacceptable. And as distasteful as I find the concept of anyone pining for my brother, I do need to hear the details if I’m to help you.”

“Help me what? He… we… I…” I down the rest of my scotch, and heave the glass at the far wall. It dents the wall, but doesn’t break. “Shit.”

“Greg.” To my surprise, Sherlock Holmes squats down in front of me, and puts his hands on my knees. “To be honest, I don’t care if you and my brother ever resolve this issue. However, it affects me, because no one at Scotland Yard will work with me. I ah, need you, Lestrade, so please tell me what happened to cause this utterly unacceptable malaise in which you now find yourself so that we can move forward to the matter of cases.”

“Thanks for making this about you.” And It’s the last thing I want to do – involving Sherlock in this… whatever it is… won’t go well, and my heart will end up more broken than it already is. But… “All right, Sherlock.” I take a deep breath and plunge into the waters of stupidity. “I asked Mycroft to marry me.”

Sherlock laughs, long and loudly. “Dear lord… why would you do that?”

“Because I want to take care of him.” I sound like an absolute berk when I say it to someone else, but I don’t give a toss. “He needs me.”

“My brother has been independent since he could walk, Lestrade. And you’re hardly the best candidate for it. What made you think he’d want you?”

“I’m not stupid,” I defend. “There were obvious signs…”

His eye roll tells me what he thinks of that.

“Signs people who have normal relationships would recognise. And Andrea said he did. She would know,” I add. “He did things… gave me things… Chelsea buns, clothes… how could I not…?”

“Oh, you are hopeless,” Sherlock sighs. “Chelsea buns? Clothes? Really, Lestrade… Mycroft most likely did those things to lull you into a false sense of security so that you would be amenable to his whims. Now that it’s over and done, he has no use for you. He’s a master manipulator, and ruthless game player.”

“And I got played. I know.” Hearing Sherlock confirm it just shatters my heart even more. “Then there’s no use in continuing, is there? You go on home, Sherlock. I’ll be back at work tomorrow.”

“I knew this would happen! You never listen, he never listens.” He yanks on his coat, and angrily wraps his scarf around his neck. “You can’t marry God, Lestrade, no matter what he does for you.”

“So you’ve said. Go away, Sherlock. Let me drink in peace.”

“Fine. I’m going to be extra noisy tomorrow when you’re hung over.” He opens the door, then looks back at me with a frown. “Wait… did he say anything?”

“The fuck, Sherlock… of course he said things. We danced, we kissed – “

“Kissed… Mycroft let you kiss him?”

“Yeah, so?”

He shuts the door firmly, and comes back over to the sofa. “Did he say anything? Think, Lestrade. This whole disaster depends on it.”

I frown, thinking back to that night. “Erm… he said he was fond of me. That he didn’t like surprises, and that he liked my arse. He told me his middle names, and that he’d fantasised about my… well, there were… yeah. And he told me about the cellist, and that he was a virgin.”

“Was he drunk?” His tone is just short of incredulous. “Revealing personal information is not something Mycroft would do. Nor does he kiss people.”

“He did more than kiss me, Sherlock. And no, he wasn’t drunk. Does that help?”

“This is unprecedented, Geoff, er… Gregson… no, Greg. “

“What do you mean?” I want to bash my head against a wall. Or push my fist through one. “Just say whatever it is you’re thinking, and stop all this dramatic flair you’ve got going. I’m not John, you know… I don’t need the flash.”

“And you want me to help you?”

“Not really.” I just want to curl up in a big ball and die. “He’s made it clear that he… we… well, we don’t want the same things. I’m a big boy – I knew it was foolish to hope, to think that he would want an old battered copper like me… I mean, what do I… what could I possibly offer a man like Mycroft Holmes? He’s so far out of my league, it’s not even funny. But, no… I had to get romantic and press him, and think that I could… oh, buggering hell, Sherlock, just leave me alone and let me pine in peace. Tomorrow, I’ll start over… you know, get on with my life.”

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock says, fingers flying over his phone. “As unlikely as it is, it seems that my brother actually fancies you, and he ran because of it. Which is a miracle in itself, because the lazy sod never exerts himself if he can help it. If I leave now, you two idiots will be on opposite ends of the world, pining like love-sick morons. You won’t catch a single criminal, and he’ll probably blow up the eastern seaboard of America. If you really don’t want to do something foolish like marry him – oh, who are we kidding? You’re quite sold on the idea of becoming Mademoiselle Holmes, aren’t you?”

“And you can just fuck off,” I say, angry that he’s making light of it. “And so can your bloody brother.”

“If I thought you meant that, **_Greg_** ,” he huffs, “I’d be in a cab on my way back to Baker Street. Unfortunately, I have deduced that your appalling lack of taste in men does in fact extend to my brother. And as sad and distasteful as I find it, I must assist you in finding him so that he can marry you and put me out of my misery. And you into it.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “I’m not going to chase him, Sherlock.”

“Yes, you are.” He opens the door. “Get an overnight bag, and come along. I’ve called a cab.”

“No.” I am well aware that I sound like… well, like Sherlock, but so be it. I can take a hint. “I’m **_not_** chasing him.”

“You are going to chase him, because it’s the only way to show him that you’re sincere.” At my look of confusion, he groans. “For god’s sake, Lestrade! Up to this point, you’ve done everything my over-bloated brother wanted you to. The date, the clothes, the dancing, meeting my parents, and staying the night with him. You are so easily manipulated, I wonder why he didn’t just… well, I suppose this is more exciting, but honestly, I do not see the point. You fancy him, he fancies you – in his way, of course – and you’re both idiots. But if you don’t go and get him, he will forever have the upper hand in the relationship. You just sitting here, waiting for him to decide what you’re going to do with your life is the topic of every trashy show on telly.”

“Well…” I blow out the breath I’d been holding. “If you’re right…”

“I am.”

“I suppose there’s no harm in trying.”

“Hurrah.” His tone is flat and humourless. “Now, if you would just gather together a change of clothes, we can be on our way. And bring your passport. And a book to read on the plane, because I will not spend the flight talking to you. Chewing gum, if you have it, and your warrant card so that I don’t have an issue bringing in…well, the less you know, the better you can feign ignorance. Downstairs, ten minutes.” He slams the door behind him, leaving me standing there, gaping. If nothing else, the Holmeses are aces at swanning out of a place.

And then it dawns on me that he hasn’t… “Sherlock! Where the bloody hell are we going?”


	2. California Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go off the rails for our fave couple, and Greg tries to explain just how deep his love for Mycroft is. Mycroft tries to make it right, and does a bit of explaining, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while. Thanks for hanging in there. 
> 
> This bit is kind of the answer to a challenge, which was to bring your favorite couple to your town. I don't live in Malibu, but I do live close, and I thought it was fitting that if Mycroft ran, he'd run so far away. And Greg loves the beach because I do. 
> 
> There may be some tiny imperfections here and there... forgive them, hm?
> 
> For Kaye, on the occasion of her birthday. And Edenlost, just because.

**Greg blows out a stream of smoke as Sally steps up beside him. “Checking up on me, Donovan?”**

**“Bening was wondering where you’d got off to.” Sally waves a hand at the smoke. “You know your husband asked me to tell him if I caught you smoking. You’re not even trying to hide it.”**

**Greg snorts at that. “He’s played you, Sal. He’ll take one look at my shoes or summat, and determine the time, date, and the length of my ciggie when I put it out.” He sighs. “Besides, my bloody, clever-clogs of a husband is the reason I’m stood out here smoking.”**

**“Ah.” She leans against the car and folds her arms across her chest. “Can’t be that bad, since I’ve not seen any solicitors hanging about, trying to serve you with divorce papers. What’s Freak Senior done?”**

**Greg flicks the ash from his cigarette near Sally’s feet. “He’s not a freak.”**

**“Well, he’s the Freak’s brother, and from what you’ve just said about him knowing you’re out here smoking, he’s just as freakish. If not more so. Freakishly freakish family, if you ask me.”**

**“I haven’t. And you’re on thin ice. Seriously.”**

**“I’m only teasing, Greg,” she laughs, then sobers at his dark look. “Hey, come on… what’s he done that’s got you all in knots?”**

**“Nothing.” Greg goes silent for a few moments, then he sighs again. “Everything.”**

**“Typical male behaviour then.” Sally chuckles and nudges him with her shoulder. “Look… nothing’s going to happen here for a bit, if Havershaw holds true to form. Slowest forensic scientist in London, and he’s all ours.”**

**“He’s thorough,” Greg corrects, though it’s half-hearted because Sally’s right.**

**“Thoroughly annoying. You want to go and grab a pint, drink away your troubles?”**

**“Not enough pints in the world.”**

**“Well, drink to forget them for a bit.”**

**“You trying to get me sacked so you can have my job?”**

**”Because I’m so high on that list,” Sally says dryly. “Come on… it’s half-eight, and we’ve been standing around waiting all bloody day. We’ve each had enough coffee to keep us awake for two days, and nothing’s happening with this case until the forensics is done. I’m calling it a day. You in?”**

**Greg blows out another stream of smoke. “You go on, Sal. They might call, and we’ll be pissed, and they’ll sack us. And I’m too upset at my husband to ask him to find me a new job.”**

**“We won’t drink more than one, then,” Sally says with an eye-roll. “Because you’re distracted, Greg, and it’s starting to show. You walked out while Bening was explaining about the fingerprints.”**

**“He kept banging on about the same thing – a ten percent match – and I got tired of hearing it. If he would have moved along, I’d have stayed.”**

**“Shocked him, you walking out.” Sally blows out a breath. “So, what do you say? We can go get a bite to eat at that new place you’ve been going on about. And I know Man City’s got a match on. Versus West Ham. You hate West Ham.”**

**“Yeah, sure… why not?” Greg tosses the cigarette, and crushes it with his heel. “Might do me some good. I’ll go and let Havershaw know we’re off, and to ring if anything happens. ”**

*******

**“So…” Sally drains the dregs of her pint, and favours Greg with a piercing look. “Your bloke has got you tied up in knots. You must really love him if you’re feeling like that, right?”**

**“I married him, Sal,” Greg says. He frowns at his drink –hard cider – and hopes to heaven that they’re actually done for the night. He needs to get right pissed, and cider isn’t going to do it at all. “Of course I do.”**

**“No offence, but you’ve been married twice before. From where I’m standing, it looks like you might be more in love with the idea of being in love than with your husband.”**

**Slightly stung at the kernel of truth in those words, Greg lowers his glass, and gives her a hard look. “With your history, you’re going to lecture me about relationships?”**

**“Never,” she says, ducking her head in apology. “Didn’t mean it like that. Just… wondering, is all.”**

**Greg does his own blushing and head ducking. “I’m sorry, Sal. That was out of line.”**

**“I fired the first shot, so no worries.”**

**“Yeah, well… I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. Mad for him. Like some bloody fifth form lad, lurking about, trying to pass him a note or something. It’s embarrassing, the way I am with him.”**

**“I think it sounds adorable,” Sally grins. “Does he feel the same?”**

**“Oh, who fucking knows?” Greg lets out a huff, and drains his drink in a large gulp. “I’ve stopped trying to figure him out.”**

**“He’s a fre – Holmes. They’re not… they don’t do things the same way you or I would, so you can’t hold them to the same standard, can you? I mean, look at the Freak… he cares for John, he’s just bad at showing it. So your bloke must hold you in the same esteem, right?”**

**“Maybe.”**

**“Oh, I’m certain he does, Greg, or he wouldn’t give a toss about you smoking. So, tell me about him,” Sally says with a smile. “I’ve only seen him a few times, but he seems less of a psychopath than Sherlock does. Calm, and unaffected. Like he knows all the secrets.”**

**“He does.”**

**“But he doesn’t blurt them out like Sherlock. That’s got to be a plus.”**

**“It might be worse, him knowing and not saying anything. Like he’s filing it away for future use.”**

**“Sex life all right?” Sally presses. “I mean… do you… does he… he seems like he’s above things regular blokes do. But then, you seem like you’re getting it regularly, so… it’s with him, right? Not some bit on the side…?”**

**Greg lifts his eyebrows. “Bit on the side? He’d have me killed.”**

**“I’m just asking.”**

**“He’s not a robot, Sal. We have sex. Lots of it.” Greg laughs, enjoying the spots of colour that have appeared on her cheeks. “Can’t get enough of it. Lots of shouting, hair pulling, shirts being destroyed. Windows have been cracked, car upholstery wrecked, and we’ve gone through what… five beds since we got together. Can’t even wear short sleeves, I’ve got so many scratches and bite marks underneath...”**

**“Yeah, yeah, all right, then. No need to go on about it.”**

**“Just want it to be clear that we’re normal in that respect.”**

**“Since I have first-hand knowledge of what a bloody sex maniac you are, and the effect you have on those you’re having sex with, I can tell.”**

**“Effect?”**

**“Stalking, mooning over you, ringing your phone all times of the day and night…” She sighs. “Bloody nuisance, that.”**

**Greg shrugs. “When you’ve got it, flaunt it.”**

**“Wanker.”**

**“Mycroft’s not fussed, Sally. If anyone would be stalking, it would be me, because he’s so bloody…” Greg groans. “A bloody pain in my arse is what. But I love him, and want to spend the rest of my life with him. God help me.”**

**“Yeah, all right.” Sally sips at her drink. “So, you have great sex, and you’re like a teenager when it comes to him. But what about the rest? Do you get on at home? I mean, you’ve married a man that knows everything about you just by looking. How does that work? How are you happy with not having any secrets? What made you fall for him?”**

**“You really want to know?” Greg feels his own face warming. “We’re mates, you and I, but you still have to look at me as your boss after I tell you. Are you ready for all that? You know how you get…”**

**“If it will get you out of this funk, and stop you smoking like a chimney, I’ll suck it up.”**

**Greg stands up and stretches. “All right, but it’s a long story. You want something to eat?”**

**“Your shout? You’ve got all that fancy man money now.”**

**“Not funny, Donovan,” Greg says. “But, yeah, fine… since you bought the coffee this morning. What do you fancy?”**

**“Steak and ale pie any good?”**

**“John likes it.”**

**“Ringing endorsement, since he’ll eat anything that’s not body parts. I’ll have that, and another pint.” Sally slides out of the chair. “I’m going to the ladies. Don’t run off.”**

*******

**Sally eats a bite of her pie, and nods appreciatively. “A bit fussy with the garnishes, but pretty tasty for a posh place. You live nearby?”**

**“Not far,” Greg hedges, popping a piece of fish in his mouth. “It’s all shush-shush, so the less I say, the better for you. Not too fancy, though, is it?”**

**“It suits you,’’ she says, snatching a chip from his plate, and dunking it into the middle of her pie. “Oh, these are good. Well, this new you, with your expensive shirts, and fancy watch, fits right in here. Word on the street is that you’re even more dishy now than you were before you got married. Funny what a little money can do…”**

**“You taking the piss, Sally?”**

**“Come off it, Greg. You know you’re well fit. What was it you said about flaunting it just now? I mean, think about it. That bird you had in Dorset stalked you for weeks when you called it quits, remember? And there’s a reason they’re always tapping you to talk to reporters. Sexy sells, eh, Silver Fox?”**

**“You know I hate that nickname.”**

**“True, though. You’re like a rough Paul Hollywood, with those smoky dark eyes and gorgeous hair. You’re oblivious because you love your husband.”**

**Greg nods. “I do, but there are times… I want to just chuck it all, and go live in a camper van somewhere far away.”**

**Sally reaches out a hand and pats his shoulder. “You’ll get through this, whatever it is. Why don’t you take your mind off it by telling me how you got married? Like, how did it come about? I know there was a date on Valentine’s Day, and it went well. Then you disappeared for a weekend, and when you came back, you were married and moving out of your flat. How’d that happen?”**

**“It wasn’t easy.” Greg shakes his head. “He agreed to marry me, then did a runner. To get him back, I had to go to California.”**

**“Oh, nice…”**

**“You would think. But I was with Sherlock. Twelve hours on a plane.”**

**“Christ… how did you not kill him?”**

**“Drinks, noise-canceling headphones, and more drinks,” Greg laughs. “Never been so happy to deplane. But then I had to face Mycroft’s assistant, who is not only the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, but can kill you with a biro while sending your death notice by text. She is not to be played with.”**

**“You’re having me on.” Sally steals another chip from Greg’s plate. “God, these are damned good. Tell me more.”**

**“They fry the chips in a mix of duck and goose fat. My posh chap won’t eat them any other way.”**

**“Nothing wrong with enjoying the finer things.”**

**“You’d think. But he… all right, Sally. I’ll tell you. But I swear, if you tell anyone what I’m telling you, you’ll never get a signal on your mobile ever again…”**

 

*******

 

Friday, 4:45PM, somewhere in the Pacific Standard Time Zone

Andrea sighs heavily as Sherlock and I approach the hired car. “Whatever this is, Mr. Holmes, your brother hasn’t time for it,” she chides with as perfect a balance of exasperation and respect as I’ve ever heard anyone do with Sherlock. “And dragging poor Detective Inspector Lestrade along to assist in whatever madness you’ve got planned is so not on.”

Sherlock frowns. “I see my brother’s attention to detail has not rubbed off on you. Were you even the slightest bit observant, you’d know I’m not here to disturb anything Mycroft is working on.”

“And I wasn’t ‘dragged’ along to...” I look around at the unfamiliar surroundings. “Here. And not because of bloody Mycroft.”

“You weren’t dragged along, but you don’t even know where you are?” Andrea makes a sound that is a fitting combination of bitterness, incredulity, and disbelief. “I have no words.”

“I…” I feel my cheeks heating up, and duck my head. “I’m just here to assist Sherlock in, ah… this ah, thing that he’s… making sure he stays on the right side of it, and to provide additional resources, should, ah… erm, well…”

Andrea’s arms fold across her chest, and she gives me a hard look. “And how will you claim jurisdiction for whatever case this is, in… where are you?”

And that’s just one of the many problems with blindly following Sherlock Holmes. There’s never a plan, and if there is a plan, you don’t find what it is until you’re tied to a chair in a dank warehouse with guns pointing at you. And Andrea’s folded arms may as well be guns, because they’re just as threatening. I squint at the skyline, and frown. “Um. Well… ah…”

Sherlock groans. “Oh, for god’s sake, Gavin! Look at the sky, look at the cars, the palm trees, the congestion, the smog. You are hopeless!”

“It’s Greg, you prick, and if you’d told me where we were headed, or deigned to share your fucking plan, I wouldn’t be stood here about to be shipped back to London on an ice freighter by your brother’s personal ninja.”

“Welcome to Los Angeles, Detective Inspector,” Andrea says dryly. “And while I appreciate the compliment about my so-called ninja talents, flattery will get you nowhere. Neither of you are going anywhere until you tell me precisely why you’re here.”

“And I thought we were getting on,” I grouse, giving in. “Yeah, all right. I’m here to –”

“I am here to consult on a case,” Sherlock cuts in. “And to surprise my mother by attending the awards ceremony.”

Andrea looks at me. “And you just happened to tag along, Greg?”

“Well, mostly,” I say with my most charming smile. “And to settle this thing with Mycroft.” No need in keeping her in the dark, since I will need her help if I’m to convince Mycroft to marry me. “If, ah, Mycroft has a free hour any time between now and Sunday, I’d appreciate any help you can give me.”

“Should have called me first,” she grumbles.

“Like this nutter gave me a chance to do anything, once he figured what was what.”

“Right.” Sherlock claps his hands together. “Now that we’ve settled that, shall we go? My mother was going on and on about the suite with, and I quote, a simply smashing view of the ocean. If you would be so kind as to take us there, we will be out of your hair.”

The look Andrea gives him tells me what she thinks of that. But, I’m sure she knows from experience that it’s best not to poke the Holmes beehive, so she just sighs, and gestures to the car. “I’ll arrange customs for you, and see to it that you’ve got a room. As if I don’t have enough to do…”

***

Thank god I wore decent clothes for the flight, because this place, the Malibu Beach Inn, isn’t anywhere near to being an inn. This place is posh. Well, nothing but the best for Mycroft’s parents, or him, for that matter, if Sherlock is right, and he’s actually here. That Sherlock could be having me on, and dragged me to California just to fuck with me is at the forefront of my thoughts. I will kill him if it turns out that Mycroft is back in London.

“He isn’t.”

“What?” I frown at Sherlock as we enter the lobby. This place is practically screaming money, but the smell of the ocean makes me smile. “I hate when you do that.”

“Mycroft is here, Lestrade. Do keep up.”

“How did you – never mind.” I can only imagine what he saw that enabled him to read me like that.

“You are amazingly easy to read. Your eyes give away all your secrets.”

“Whatever. And you’re certain he’s keen?” I ask, sounding like I’m stalking my first crush.

“Have I ever let you down?” He shoots me a sideways glance. “Other than that thing with the child in Norbury.”

“That was a big one. I nearly got suspended.”

“Well, I am certain that Mycroft is keen, Lestrade. But it’s not his milieu – nothing is, really – so he’s understandably experiencing some trepidation as to proceeding in the expected fashion. You’ll have to set aside your natural inclination to defer to him, and take the bull by the horns. Good luck with that.” He heads for a side path that (hopefully) leads to a place where I can sit down and think. And drink. And talk about this ceremony thing.

“I’m trying. Just… shit. It’s just dawned on me that I might not have packed anything for a fancy do,” I say as we climb the stairs.

“Trousers, shirt, tie, jacket,” he says without looking up from his phone. “Did you pack any of that?”

“Yes, but nothing fancy. You didn’t bloody tell me where we were going, you arse.”

“I told you I was taking you to my brother so that you could stop mooning over him. Mycroft was born in a waistcoat and tie. You didn’t bring anything to impress him?”

“I barely had time to change clothes the way you were rushing me,” I complain, then sigh at the blank look he throws over his shoulder. “I’m sure I can go to a shop or something for the… what is it?”

“And I was under the impression that John was the master of pointless questions,” he sighs. “I was wrong.”

“Yeah, cheers, mate. But I’m not John, and need a little more detail.”

“If you must know, my mother is being honoured by some women’s group for helping girls achieve their goals in science and maths. There’s a ceremony in… I’ve deleted where, but it’s not black tie, just smart attire. If you’re worried about money, I’ve nicked one of Mycroft’s credit cards…”

“So I’m going to commit credit card fraud, and convince him to marry me in one go?” I shake my head. “Yeah, that’ll seal the deal.”

“He already wants to marry you, Lestrade. Don’t be tedious.”

“Seeing that he’s legged it all the way to California, your opinion about what he wants to do is a bit suspect. And I’m sure he won’t take kindly to me stealing his identity to go clothes shopping. Will probably chuck me into the ocean.”

“He won’t know unless you tell him.” He stares at me for a long moment. “Oh, and you will tell him, won’t you? You are horrible at this, Lestrade. Simply horrible.”

“I don’t even know what ‘this’ is, so I’m probably going to make a fool of myself, regardless. Or you’ll do it for me.”

“As horrifying as I find the idea, Mycroft does care for you. You should trust me.”

“Trust a bloke who’s never even kissed anyone? Right.”

“I don’t need experience to know the state of affairs.” Sherlock stops in front of the last door in the corridor. “My mother will be delighted that you’re here, and will assume you’ve come to be with Mycroft. Don’t do anything to dissuade her of the notion. We won’t stay long, but be careful of my father. He isn’t as doddering as he seems.”

“I know. He’s ever ready with the advice on the care and feeding of your Holmes,” I recall with a grin. I take a deep breath of my own, and run a hand through my hair. “Ready as I’ll ever be. And I’ll kill you if Mycroft is in here.”

“He isn’t.” He taps on the door. “Hopefully.”

Before I can answer (or bash his head in), the door is wrenched open, and Margaret near-shrieks with joy. “Sherlock!” She throws her arms around him and practically drags him into the room. “Oh, what a pleasant surprise! I thought Andy was having me on, saying you’d come. Isn’t this a turn up, Ed?”

“Delightful,” Edmund says, patting Sherlock on the back. “Good to see you, son.”

“If you could let me go,” Sherlock squeaks out from his mother’s neckline.

Margaret lets him go, then looks over his shoulder at me. “Oh, and you’ve brought Greg along! Come in, Greg… don’t dawdle out in the corridor.”

I smile and step inside, closing the door behind me. “Hello to you both. Pleasure to see you again.”

Ed sticks out a hand, and I shake it firmly. “Greg,” he says. “Nice to see you. Mikey didn’t tell us you were coming.”

“Spur of the moment thing,” I say, hoping I sound convincing. “Had a bit of time off saved up, thought I take a mini holiday. Just for the week-end. Don’t want to keep him from working, you know.”

“Of course,” Margaret says. “But you are coming to the ceremony tonight? I’d love to have you at my table, and I’m sure Mikey will enjoy having you there.”

Oh, I’m sure. “I don’t want to impose, and I didn’t bring anything fancy to wear, with being at the beach and all…”

“Don’t be silly,” Margaret says. “I’ll be the envy of all the girls, with such handsome lads at my table. Sherlock won’t mind helping you sort out something to wear, will you? He’s such a natty dresser, our Sherlock… just like his dad.”

“Boring,” comes his automatic response to anything that’s not to do with clues and murders.

“Rude,” Margaret replies sharply, her blue eyes trained on Sherlock’s like lasers.

To my immense surprise, Sherlock sighs, and dips his head toward me. “Apologies, Lestrade. I’d be happy to assist you.”

“Really?” I chuckle. “Your mum’s the Sherlock Whisperer? I should have her along on our cases to see that you behave.”

“It would only highlight your incompetence more, Lestrade,” Sherlock says, an evil glint in his eyes that speaks of retribution.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Margaret tisks. “I despair of ever teaching him any kind of manners, Greg.”

“Welcome to my world,” I say. “Erm… I would really like to get settled, and I need to get to a shop to get another shirt for tonight’s do. I think Andrea’s said our room was somewhere at the end of the corridor…?” I know Andrea was seeing to our rooms, but from the set of her jaw, I wouldn’t be surprised if I was to sleep on one of the lounge chairs in the sand.

“Mycroft’s using his suite as a top secret base of operations, as usual,” Margaret says with a laugh, “but I’m certain he’ll pop in to see you later on. Good luck sharing with Sherlock. He’s a hellish roommate.” She ignores Sherlock’s squawk of protest. “I’m going to work on my speech. Enjoy your stay, Greg. I’ll see you this evening.”

The thought of sharing space with Sherlock gives me hives, but I manage to smile. “Congratulations in advance,” I say. “Thank you for inviting me.”

***

**“So, the Freak’s got normal parents?” Sally shakes her head in disbelief. “I’d have thought they’d be proper geniuses.”**

**“Oh, they are,” Greg says with a smile. “She’s a maths whiz, and he’s brilliant in his own right. They’re just quiet about it.”**

**“Must be a pleasant change. Can’t imagine them even having parents. This is amazing. And that assistant, putting Sherlock in his place. What’s she look like?”**

**Greg opens his mouth to say, but something in the doorway catches his eye. “Buggering hell.”**

**Sally turns to see what he’s looking at. “What is it?”**

**“You're about to meet her.”**

**“Who?” Sally frowns at the doorway. “What’s going on?”**

**Greg stands up as Andrea approaches the table. “What’s up, Andrea? Come for some fish and chips? They’re pretty good.”**

**“Detective Inspector,” Andrea says coolly. Her eyes shift over to Sally. “Sergeant Donovan.”**

**“Hello,” Sally says. “You must be the infamous ninja assistant…?”**

**“The Detective Inspector is prone to exaggeration.”**

**“I did think he was making you up,” Sally laughs. “Seemed a bit fanciful, but you are quite lovely. Care to join us?”**

**“Stop flirting, Sally,” Greg says. “You’re on my side of this.”**

**Andrea raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Oh, we’ve drawn sides? I’ve only come as the peacemaker.”**

**“Yeah? Then what’s with you calling me by my title?” Greg folds his arms across his chest, and gives her a hard look. “You only do that when you want to annoy me. And it’s working.”**

**“You can’t be more annoyed than I am right now,” Andrea huffs. She clears her throat. “Listen, Greg… he’s leaving soon, and wishes to speak with you. If you could just go out to the car, this will be sorted.”**

**“I’m sat right here,” he says firmly. “He could walk in here, and take a seat right next to me. Sending you to fight his battle just makes my point. He’s an arse.”**

**“It’s…” Andrea blows out a breath. “He can’t afford to have this type of distraction right now. And it’s wreaking hell on everything. Please…”**

**“Really, Andrea? You think that’s going to work?”**

**“Worth a try,” she shrugs. “A man has got his pride, I suppose.”**

**“A man does. And he’s…”**

**“Here,” Mycroft says in Greg’s ear.**

**Greg fights off the shiver that comes automatically when Mycroft’s lips are anywhere near his ears, and steps away before he does something foolish, like snogging his husband on the table top. “Sally, you remember Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft?”**

**“I do,” Sally says with a smile at Mycroft. She takes in his overcoat and scarf, and then looks back at Greg. “Right, I didn’t see it before, but I can see why you’d go nuts over him. Like a film star, wrapped in cashmere. Very nice.”**

**Mycroft’s eyes never leave Greg’s. “Thank you, Sergeant Donovan. You aren't alone in your appreciation of my coat, is she, Gregory?”**

**“Stacking the deck in your favour,” Greg mutters, trying hard to ignore Mycroft’s fancy scarf, perfectly tailored trousers, deliciously crisp white shirt, and the rich blue tie perfectly knotted at his throat. He licks his lips, and fights the urge to tug his husband into an embrace.**

**“Of course,” Mycroft nods. “But I’m not certain as to how I should react to being referred to as Sherlock’s brother, and not your husband. Or that you’ve smoked three cigarettes since this morning.”**

**“Told you, Sal.” Greg shrugs. “The cause was sufficient. And it was you who said they’re just words. Doesn’t feel so good on this side of it, does it?”**

**“Not particularly,” Mycroft says with a blush rising up his neck. “Gregory… I’ve got to be… I need to be on a plane in an hour. However, this… situation… between us gives me pause.” He lets out a small breath. “Uncharacteristically, I do not want to depart whilst being in your, ah, bad books.”**

**“Really.” Greg’s tone is flat. “That’s a change.”**

**“Yes.” Mycroft’s tone is equally flat. “You’re still angry, and I don’t… well, it unhinges me.”**

**“As well it should,” Greg fires back. “You’re an arse.”**

**Mycroft feels his face heating up, and draws in a deep breath. “Yes,” he agrees. “Yes, I am. But you are stuck with me, since you stalked me across two continents, and insisted that I marry you.”**

**“I did not insist,” Greg defends. “I was just telling Sally how you were all Mister ‘I Don’t Do This’ then you agreed to marry me. Then you made me chase you to Malibu, tried me make me jealous, and acted like an arse, which I forgot is normal for you.”**

**“Gregory.”**

**Sally looks from one man to the other, noting the utter misery on both their faces. “Would have been better telling me about the sex, Greg. This is… tmi.”**

**“It’s all right, Sally.” Greg says with a droopy smile. “He’ll be off in a bit, and then we can get right pissed. Then I’ll tell you the real story!”**

**Mycroft looks at Sally. “His version of the story will undoubtedly be skewed in his favour, Sergeant Donovan.”**

**“Sally’s fine,” Sally says, her face feeling uncharacteristically warm at the intensity of Mycroft’s gaze. “You obviously changed your mind because here you are. But I’m curious as to why you, ah… ran, if that’s the correct word.”**

**“It is not the correct word.”**

**Greg snorts. “Semantics.”**

**“I had business to take care of,” Mycroft says, looking at Greg. “If I can have a seat, and perhaps a drink… we can resolve this matter.”**

**“Sir?” Andrea frowns at her phone. “We haven’t time – ”**

**Mycroft holds up a hand to stop her from saying what he already knows. “I am well aware, Andrea. However, I cannot leave things as they are, and my husband will not bend.”**

**“Oh, now I’m his husband.” Greg shakes his head. “And no, I’m not bending.”**

**“And so you see, Andrea,” Mycroft continues, “this will not be easily settled. And it would be just my luck that we parted on bad terms, and he was injured on duty. I would never forgive myself.”**

**“Would serve you right,” Greg mutters.**

**“Gregory!” Mycroft’s tone is sharp as he knocks on the wooden table top. “Don’t even joke like that.”**

**“Whatever.”**

**“Petulance is rather unattractive.”**

**Greg ignores him and takes a long swallow of water.**

**Mycroft sighs at Greg’s lack of response. “You vowed that you would not let the sun go down on your wrath.”**

**“And you vowed not to be an arse. You can’t help yourself.”**

**“I have been remiss in my duties as your husband, and am determined to restore your trust in me.”**

**Greg eyes him warily. “And how are you going to go about it?”**

**“I'll stay here until the tensions between us ease.  Perhaps us drinking and talking together will help you to forgive me for my horrible gaffe.”**

**“Gaffe?” Greg gives a great eye-roll. “Is that what you’re calling it?”**

**“Mistake, then,” Mycroft amends. “A grave error.”**

**“Getting warmer,” Greg says.**

**Andrea sighs, and pulls over another chair. “I’ll get the drinks. And call the pilot, the ambassador, and… everyone in the free world to postpone. This is why I’m single,” she mutters, heading toward the bar while tapping on her mobile.**

**“She’s very, ah, efficient, isn’t she?” Sally observes, blushing.  “She’s… she might need some help carrying the drinks tray…” She’s out of her seat and off before either man can reply.**

**“Another one down,” Greg says with a rueful shake of his head. “Grant would have married her, if she wasn’t already married to her work.”**

**“She is most devoted,” Mycroft says. “No harm will come to Sergeant Donovan, if that’s your worry.”**

**“Least of. Sally can handle herself. Well mostly,” he amends, thinking of Anderson.**

**“Ah, well… I am** **apologising** **again.”**

**“I was so honoured that you actually wanted me at your fancy do, and was looking forward to standing proudly at your side. But then… you introduced me as a colleague of your brother,” Greg says through gritted teeth. “I understand that we’re not out and proud or what-have-you, but that was just… I wasn’t expecting it. Especially since you insisted I go to the dinner.”**

**“I did want you there,” Mycroft says firmly. “It was not my intention to dismiss you, or to make you feel that I do not value our relationship… marriage,” he amends at Greg’s scowl of displeasure.**

**“But not to you,” Greg sniffs. “I get it. It’s how dismissive you are of me, of what I want and need. I don’t like it.”**

**“You were quite thorough in voicing your displeasure.”**

**“You were quite thorough in your dismissal.”**

**“You’ve been sleeping in the spare room for four days, seven hours, and eighteen minutes. I don’t like it.”**

**“Me, either.” Greg smiles bitterly. “You can hog all the pillows without me complaining.”**

**Mycroft has the good grace to look embarrassed. “It’s not the same if you’re not there to be combative. The depth of my feeling for you should not be in doubt.”**

**“It isn’t,” Greg says. “The depth of your commitment to me is, though. You want all the benefits of me, but god forbid your posh toff pals find out that you not only have a bit of rough, you married him.”**

**“A bit of rough?” Mycroft’s eyes darken, and he takes a step closer to Greg. “Is that what you think?”**

**“It wasn’t. But I’m following the facts. You know, like a Holmes.”**

**“You shouldn’t,” Mycroft says tersely. “I continuously wonder at your chosen profession, as you seem to habitually follow the wrong facts.”**

**“Yeah, well… I’d wonder at yours, but I don’t know what it is you do.” Greg holds up a hand to stave off the customary response. “Minor government official. You’ve said.”**

**“I don’t have ‘pals’, posh, toff, or otherwise. The circle of people that I trust completely is rather narrow.”**

**“And I’m not one of them. I get it.” Greg sighs. “Let’s just drop it, yeah? I’m hurt enough, and this is just making it worse.”**

**“Gregory…” Mycroft frowns, and puts his hand on Greg’s shoulder. “You know what you’ve said isn’t true. I trust you implicitly. With the important things.”**

**“We’re married.”**

**“We are.”**

**“You wish we weren’t.”**

**“At times, I wish I’d never met you,” Mycroft says quietly. “My life was rather more simple without you in it. Or so I liked to think…”**

*******

“Sir.”

I look up from the files I’m scanning, and frown at Andrea’s untimely interruption. I take in the minute traces of stress and apprehension in her stance. Bugger… that could only mean… “What’s Sherlock done now?”

“He’s here.”

“Here?” God, please have mercy on me and let it not be here in this hotel.

“In this hotel. In a suite on the opposite end.”

Why do I even try to convince deities to assist me? They never do. I sigh, and set the files aside. “What is he here for? A case, or have my parents taken leave of their senses and invited him to the ceremony?”

“He accepted your parent’s invitation. There may also be a case. I’m not certain.”

“Damn it.” I haven’t the patience to deal with Sherlock and his peculiar brand of brotherly love while focusing on the pressing issues for which I’m here to assist. I stand, and begin haphazardly shoving folders into my satchel. “We’ll leave as soon as the plane can be readied.”

“Yes, sir.” She hesitates, then takes in a large breath. “There’s more.”

“Of course there is. The question is will it render me speechless, or wishing I could go drown myself in the ocean?”

“Hm… perhaps a combination of both?”

“Go on.”

“The Detective Inspector is with Sherlock.”

I feel my whole body blush. “He's here?” And my voice is five octaves higher than usual. Well, at least not speechless. “Gregory Lestrade?”

“Yes, sir. Of Scotland Yard.”

“I suppose I deserved that,” I concede, ignoring her knowing smirk.

“Yes. Are you certain that you wish to leave, knowing he’s here?”

“Yes.” Because I can’t face him. But I don’t say that aloud. “I will admit to being surprised that my message to him wasn’t clear.”

“If I’m not mistaken, when he last saw you, you were contemplating accepting his proposal. That was three weeks ago. Considering you haven’t spoken with him since, he is most likely under the impression that you've changed your mind, and that he needs to convince you to say yes.  Sherlock is under that impression by the way.”

“Is he?” I glare at her through narrowed eyes. “Aren’t you in charge of the surveillance on Lestrade? How is he here without you knowing? You should have been alerted the moment he stepped on a plane in London. I’m not sure what I’m paying you do to, but I’m certain this lax attention to issues under your care is not it.”

The rapid fire manner of my chiding causes her to blush. “I’m sorry, sir. It did not occur to me that he would chase you across two continents. I - ”

“Excuses!” I slam a hand down on the table top. “You are only as irreplaceable as I deem you.”

“Of course, sir.”

I frown at the tremble in her voice, and realise I most certainly have gone off the deep end, snapping at Andrea. “Apologies. That was extremely rude of me. Gregory is not your responsibility, and it was wrong of me to ask that of you.”

“Yes.” Her tone is decidedly frosty.

“Don’t hold a grudge, Andrea,” I sigh, knowing that she’ll take my outburst in stride, as well as the pay rise I’ll give her in apology. “I need one of us to be rational. I am… at a loss as to how to proceed.”

“Well, if I may offer an opinion without fear of being replaced…?”

I wave a hand at her. “I am admittedly out of my depth.”

“Why did you leave without sorting it?” She frowns. “That is, if I wasn’t mistaken in that you feel a slight affection for him…?”

“You weren’t. I am… ah, exceedingly fond of him. Much to my dismay.”

To her credit, she barely bats an eye at my admission. “And you were certain that you wanted to marry him at the time, but are now having second thoughts?”

“Not second thoughts, per se…”

“Well, then what? Did he move too quickly? Do something untoward? Take liberties that made you… erm… uncomfortable?”

I raise my eyebrows at that. “Of course not, Andrea. Despite my lack of steady companionship, I’m not… well. This conversation has taken a turn.”

“Quite,” she agrees.

“I may have thought it a good idea when he proposed marriage. He does that to me.” I fall back into my chair, and slump forward. “I do not do this. I do not like this. This… maelstrom of emotion, of feelings, of… insanity. I cannot stomach it. And so here we are.”

She looks at me, eyes narrowed. “But you do… want to marry him, correct?”

“It is madness.” I feel my face heating again, and curse my fair skin. “And rather complicated.”

“It is only complicated if you make it so, if I may say.”

“He is… more tolerable than most. But I do not think he would survive me. I am hell on anyone who would dare.”

“You are not for the faint of heart, as poor Clark can attest.”

“We agreed there would be no more mention of the cellist…” The failed interaction between Clark and myself is a source of… well, I won't say embarrassment, but the poor man was of no use to the symphony when I stepped away from him.

“Sorry, sir.” She looks at her phone, then at me. “Your mother would like to speak with you at your earliest convenience. And she is insistent that the Detective Inspector be seated at her table for tonight’s ceremony. I’m to make that happen,” she mutters, “while keeping an eye on Sherlock’s doings, and – ”

“I apologise for overtaxing you,” I say. I want to tear my hair out. This is what happens when one gets involved, or lets one’s body dictate how things should be. “Fine. Back to work.”

To my surprise, she shakes her head. “Horrid idea, burying your head in the sand.”

“So be it. I will not play games with Sherlock and the Detective Inspector,” I say firmly. And I realise that I sound like a small child, but I am unable to smother the petulance churning in my mind. “I will not be one of my brother’s riddles to solve. There is nothing to solve. The… Lestrade should return to Scotland Yard, and not stick his nose into affairs that do not concern him. I will revoke his invitation to the ceremony.”

“That will upset your mother, which we do not want to do, sir. And if I may say, you’re being rather irrational because of Lestrade.”

“Am I? Do tell.” My tone is pure ice, as is the look I give her.

That she merely lifts an eyebrow in return is one of the main reasons she remains in my employ.  “You can try to replace me for saying this, but if the answer to his proposal is no, and childish games are not on the agenda, you must be forthright, and say no to him. And no, I will not do it for you. It is what one does.”

“I am extremely busy,” I say, with a rather lame gesture toward my satchel. And saying this to the woman who has my schedule memorised is nothing short of insanity. “Face to face?”

“You would say ‘no I do not wish to marry you, Greg’ in a text or email? How crass.”

“I wouldn’t call him ‘Greg’. And I was considering a messenger or a note with some type of token of thanks, such as a watch, or tickets to a match, but I suppose that is just as bad. Would it be gauche to offer him a new flat, or provide the services of a housekeeper?"

“Oh, quite," she laughs. "He is not one of those easily flattered ministers you're used to dealing with."

“Bugger.”

“Exactly,” she says with a tiny laugh. “Shall I set up a meeting? Perhaps breakfast?”

“I… no. I’ve got a conference call in five minutes, and the Ministers aren’t in place yet. Also, Thomas is lurking about, and it won’t do for Gregory to cross paths with him.”

“I concur. Thomas is unbearable, and will undoubtedly rouse the Detective Inspector’s jealousy. Though I would pay good money to see Lestrade hand Thomas his arse over you.”

“Andrea, you are a barbarian.”

“One of the many reasons you hired me. At any rate, Lestrade and Sherlock will be here until Sunday evening.” She turns back to the stack of folders on the coffee table. “I’ll have these sorted in a bit.”

“Perfect.” I move over to the window, and look out at the excellent view of the ocean. Not as pristine as those farther west, but beautiful in its own right. I frown as my mobile chimes, knowing exactly who it is. With a deep breath to steel myself for the onslaught, I answer. “Mother, how are you?”

“Don’t you ‘mother’ me, Mikey. What have you done?”

“Many things,” I say, unable to stop myself from being churlish. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Greg is here. Did you know he was coming? And where are you? Off, working, of course. No wonder you can’t get Greg to marry you; you’re married to your work.”

“Sherlock is married to his work,” I correct. “I simply cannot spare the time or energy for a relationship. Gregory knew the risks when he took me on.”

“He didn't know, or he wouldn't have those horrendous bags under his eyes, would he?” she demands. “Oh, Mikey…”

“Mycroft, if you please.”

“I’m sorry?” I can feel her displeasure as if she were in the room.

I swallow a big dose of pride, and clear my throat. “Apologies, Mummy.”

“Fine,” she huffs. “Now, you will be joining us at the ceremony, correct?”

“If my work is done at ceremony time, yes.”

“See to it that it is, or else, Mycroft Archimedes Edmund Holmes.” She rings off before I can say more.

***

**“And weren’t you just a pompous arse at the ceremony,” Greg says. “Ignored me the whole time.”**

**“I did not ignore you,” Mycroft corrects. “I simply was not prepared for how devastatingly gorgeous you were. And that shirt… lilac… did me in.”**

**“Sherlock picked it. Said you’d like me in it.”**

**“I did. And as much as you believe you revert to a ‘fifth form lad’ around me, I am a hopeless primary school boy whenever I see you. I had to ignore you - I couldn’t form words because you are a beautiful man. That shirt, and your hair… the combination left me breathless.”**

**“Oh, you say that now. But, you went all icy and cool, leaving me to fend for myself, while you flitted around the room, glad handing with your mum. Did the same thing at that fancy dinner, so I assume it’s me.”**

**“Gregory, I - ” Mycroft frowns as his mobile vibrates. “A moment, if you please…” He steps away from the table to take the call.**

**Greg sighs and watches him go. “Gonna need a real drink to get through this…”**

 

**TBC**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Malibu Inn is a real place, and is rather nice. More about it to come in the next bits. Speaking of next bits, let's say every two weeks, just in case the hands decide to quit on me again.


	3. Free Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg attends the awards do, much to Mycroft's dismay. There is snubbing, dancing, upsetting Mummy, angst, territory marking, letting go, and fatherly advice. And Sherlock plays matchmaker. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder; This story is told in flashback. Greg and Mycroft are already married here. If you haven't read Date Night, which is the first in this series, please go ahead and do that so you won't be confused. 
> 
> Fair warning: Mycroft is an arse. Still. But, remember, this is a flashback. He'll get it eventually.

 

**Previously...  
**

_**“And weren’t you just a pompous arse at the ceremony,” Greg says. “Ignored me the whole time.”** _

_**“I did not ignore you,” Mycroft corrects. “I simply was not prepared for how devastatingly gorgeous you were. And that shirt… lilac… did me in.”** _

_**“Sherlock picked it. Said you’d like me in it.”** _

_**“I did. And as much as you believe you revert to a ‘fifth form lad’ around me, I am a hopeless primary school boy whenever I see you. I had to ignore you - I couldn’t form words because you are a beautiful man. That shirt, and your hair… the combination left me breathless.”** _

_**“Oh, you say that now. But, you went all icy and cool, leaving me to fend for myself, while you flitted around the room, glad handing with your mum. Did the same thing at that fancy dinner, so I assume it’s me.”** _

_**“Gregory, I - ” Mycroft frowns as his mobile vibrates. “A moment, if you please…” He steps away from the table to take the call.** _

_**Greg sighs and watches him go. “Gonna need a real drink to get through this…”** _

And now...

 

**Sally puts the drinks tray on the table and sits down. “What did we miss?”**

**Greg looks from one woman to the other, and shakes his head. “Not much, it seems.”**

**“Oh, go on with that,” Sally laughs, but she’s blushing. “Where’s your husband?”**

**“Taking a call.”**

**“This is an important meeting,” Andrea says, taking the seat next to Sally. “Him missing it should be a sign of how much he cares, Greg.”**

**“Should be.” Greg looks at the drinks on the tray, and snags a glass of scotch. “He’s told me that he wished he’d never met me, that it was his intention to not marry me, and he doesn’t like love. Should have known.” He takes a large gulp of his drink, and grimaces as it burns its way down his throat. “Damn, that’s strong. Where’s the soda?”**

**“That’s for Mycroft,” Andrea laughs. “Yours is the hard cider.”**

**“My husband just stomped on my heart, and you’re giving me hard cider, Andrea? That’s just cruel.” Greg lets out a hollow laugh, and puts a hand over top of the glass of scotch. “He can have the cider.”**

**“You know he doesn’t like cider,” Andrea says, taking the glass from under Greg’s hand. “And stop being a drama queen. All that’s in the past. You’ve been married for two years now… where is it you think he’s going?”**

**“Not the point,” Greg grouses, “and I’m done taking advice from people who aren’t even dating anyone.”**

**“And you’ve got two failed marriages under your belt,” Sally defends with a blushing look at Andrea. “Not exactly the poster boy for healthy relationships.”**

**Greg’s head snaps back in surprise. “Wow, Sal… you just met her. Small doses.”**

**“Arse.” Sally takes a large swallow of her beer, and thunks the glass on the table. “I mean, really.”**

**“Sorry.” Greg sits back in his chair, and sighs. “That was uncalled for.”**

**“And biting the hand that feeds you,” Andrea adds. “He’s let you in, Greg, and that’s not normal for him. Don’t forget that.”**

**“I haven’t.” Greg takes another sip of the scotch. “But it wasn’t some noble sacrifice on his part, Andrea. I made concessions, too.” He sighs. “I do love him, even with all this. But him being dismissive of me brings up old hurts. Like that awards ceremony…”**

 

*******

“…and this award is for all the women – young, old, and in-between – who now have a chance to expand because of the work of the Vernet Foundation. I want to express my gratitude to my family, which supported me in all my undertakings, and everyone I work with every day to make our foundation successful. I am very pleased to have received this award. I appreciate your choice and thank you for your trust in me.” Margaret smiles, takes off her glasses, and steps away from the podium.

I join in on the thundering applause and standing ovation as she makes her way back to our table, plaque in hand. “Great speech,” I say, taking the plaque and helping her to sit. “Very encouraging.”

“Well done, Mummy,” Mycroft adds. He’s seated himself opposite me, and other than the occasional Holmes-ish glance my way, hasn’t said anything other than ‘good evening’ since he arrived.

“It helped, having you lot out here cheering for me,” Margaret smiles. “And all of you, looking so handsome. Greg… that shirt and tie is smashing.”

I blush and smooth my hands over my shirt self-consciously. “Wasn’t sure about the colour, but I suppose it’s all right.”

“The women here seem to appreciate it,” Ed chimes in. “Something about the light aubergine, and the silver hair, I think. Mesmerising, wouldn’t you say, Mikey?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes at the nickname, and purses his lips. “Quite flattering.” He looks down at his phone. “If you will excuse me…?”

“But what about Greg?” Ed asks, much to my embarrassment. “Have you two had a row?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade is well aware that I have an important matter on my radar this evening,” Mycroft says crisply and curtly.

“I’m good,” I say, stung at his use of my title. “I’m keen to do some dancing and socialising, so you go on and handle your business, Mike. I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft says with a frown at my calling him Mike.

“Oh, I was hoping you’d join in on the dancing,” Margaret says.

“I’ve already pushed my schedule back as far as I could, Mother.” At her piercing look, he clears his throat. “Mother… I can’t just set aside important matters because you want to two-step. Please understand that.” He nods, and is off before anyone can say more.

“And he says I upset her,” Sherlock groans. “I need some air.”

I watch him go, then turn back to Margaret and Ed. “That was… is this typical?”

“Unfortunately,” Margaret sighs. “I should have socialized them more, but by the time I realised they had their own social hierarchy, and a disdain for anyone not in their immediate circle, it was too late.”

“Must have been tough, being their parents.”

“I don’t think tough is strong enough a word,” Ed cuts in with a sideways look at his wife. He holds out a hand to her. “They’re adults now, love… no need in dwelling on spilt milk. And they’re about to start the dancing. Why don’t you pop off to the ladies, and I’ll meet you in a few?”

Margaret takes his hand with a smile. “Grand idea. We’ll see you in a bit, Greg.”

I stand as she does and smile wistfully at what a lovely couple they make. I only wish I could have a fraction of a love like that. “Of course.”

*******

**“‘Detective Inspector Lestrade’?” Sally frowns. “What an insult. And to just leave you there…”**

**“He gets that way when things don’t go to plan, and I certainly wasn’t supposed to just turn up,” Greg laughs. “But I wasn’t left alone. As soon as word spread that I was there without a date, women starting coming out of the woodwork.”**

**“Much to my dismay,” Mycroft chimes in, as he returns to the table. “Andrea, dear, Smith needs documents seven and eight, and the list for the council, if you please.”**

**“Of course,” she says, taking her tablet from the case he hands her. “You were saying something about dismay, sir…”**

**Mycroft gives her a look. “You are well aware of all the verses to this epic, Andrea.”**

**“Yes,” she says. “But since we can’t leave, it won’t hurt to let Greg know what was what back then, seeing that he needs reassuring…”**

**“He shouldn’t,” Mycroft says quietly. “But, here we are. He was devastatingly handsome in that lovely shirt and tie,” he says with a far-off look in his eyes. “He’d put some type of product in his hair that made it shine and spike up, and the result was perfection. I was angry – at myself, at my brother, at everyone, really, for making me see him in such a light. I knew no other course than to push him away, lest I fall under his spell and beg him to marry me.”**

**“Arse,” Greg grumbles.**

**“Quite so.” Mycroft takes the glass of scotch from Greg’s hand. “You don’t like scotch.”**

**“I thought Holmeses were above stating the obvious?”**

**“Merely making an observation.”**

**“Still an arse.”**

**“So it seems.” Mycroft smiles. “I was jealous, then. All those women, and you had the pick of them. You didn’t even have to try… they just flocked to you.”**

**“It was flattering. And seeing that you’d abandoned me like an old shoe, what choice did I have…?”**

 

*******

“Excuse me.”

I look up from my intense study of my nails to see a rather lovely blonde woman standing nervously beside me. “Oh, hello.”

She tosses her braid over a bare shoulder and smiles. “Uh, hi. I, ah… well, I wouldn’t do this under normal circumstances, but I just…” she ducks her head, and looks up at me through her long lashes. “Would you like to dance?”

I blink in surprise. “What?”

“It’s…” Two spots of colour appear on her cheeks. “I know it’s quite forward of me, but I’ve been watching you for a while, and no one has claimed you for a dance.”

“I’m all on my own, it seems.” Well, isn’t this a turn up… I’m hanging about, pining for a man who doesn’t want me, and here’s a good looking woman who’d be glad to have me, if just for a dance.  “What’s your name, then?”

“Suzanne.”

“Greg.”

“I love your accent. Very charming.”

“Yours isn’t too bad, either,” I say with an open smile.

Might have been a little too open, because she frowns. “I… ah, well… just so you know, I’m not trying to be… I don’t want you think I’m trying to pick you up or anything, but there are always more women at these things than men, and you’re just sitting here, and I thought you wouldn’t mind dancing. You know… without any expectations?”

“I’d love to dance with you. And no, no expectations.” I smile. “I’m not all that fancy about it, and might step on your toes, but I’m game if you are.”

She looks over her shoulder and gives the thumbs up to the table of women in the corner. Then she turns back to me. “I’m the trailblazer. We figured there was a high probability that a blonde would be more your type – statistically, men tend to be more soft toward blondes – and that you wouldn’t refuse me. If I got a yes, you’d say yes to the others.”

I shake my head. “You must be part of the Vernet Foundation contingent.”

“Astrophysicist, and proud,” she laughs. “You?”

“Copper… ah, police officer, Scotland Yard.”

“Oh, how exciting! You’ll have to tell me all about it.” She takes my hand and tugs me out on the dance floor. “Do you know Sherlock Holmes?”

After I figured out that it was just line dancing, I get comfortable, and show them all a good time. I think I danced with every single woman in attendance. I do the tush-push, two-step, and a few other mind-boggling dances with Suzanne, Nancy, Tina, Jasmine, Nichelle and Nicole (gorgeous twins from Namibia), Lisa, Jamie, Jennifer, Amy… lovely women in all shapes, sizes and backgrounds. Turns out that most of them had benefited from Margaret’s programme, and are scientists, mathematicians, engineers, chemists, and overall just brilliant. I’m flattered that they just want to dance, to talk, to drink, and keep me company. As much as they are fascinated by my accent, the fact that I work with Sherlock, and am a copper, I am amazed by their brilliance, and their unabashed nerdiness about science and maths. Margaret should be proud of the work she’s doing, if this is any indication of what’s possible.

After a steady hour of dancing and talking, I declare it break time, and head outside for some fresh air. I hate that I didn’t think to bring my cigarettes, but I’m sure Margaret would have found them, and chucked them.

I take a step closer to the fountain, intending to have a seat and let the sound of the bubbling water calm my nerves, but I hear a familiar voice, and a low chuckle behind me. I turn, and squint into the dark corner of the courtyard. Bloody fucking hell. Over in a secluded corner, Mycroft is leaning against a pillar, cigarette in hand, allowing some tall bloke in an expensive suit to touch him. I mean, it’s just a hand on his shoulder, but bugger all, that’s too much.

I sigh in resignation. What was I thinking, letting Sherlock convince me that Mycroft wanted someone like me, when he’s got a tall, snappily dressed chap waiting in the wings? Delusional, that’s what I am. I turn to go back inside and run smack into Sherlock. “Oi, watch it!”

“Where are you going?”

“Back inside. To the hotel. On the first flight back to London." I breathe in and out a few times, trying not to panic. “Somewhere. Anywhere but here.”

“Why? Don’t you see Mycroft over there?”

“Of course I see him!”

He look at me with a frown. “Then why are you… oh, you think he’s… for god’s sake, Geoff! You are so painfully unobservant, I constantly wonder why you didn’t become a peacock herder instead of a police officer. You are a detective, so observe, detect… do anything other than this emotional pining thing you’re doing now. As I’ve said before.”

“It’s Greg, you arse,” I snap back. “And I’m observing plenty. I see Mycroft and a tall, rich bloke having a cosy moment over in the corner. I see the man I am desperately in love with letting some dark-haired poacher touch him. I’ve seen enough.”

“Dear god, Lestrade. **_Look._** ”

“Don’t get shirty with me, Sherlock Holmes. This was your idea, me coming here and declaring myself with your bloody brother, because you were so certain he was keen. But he isn’t, is he? And look what it’s gotten me – Mycroft can’t stand the sight of me. Whatever else there is, I don’t see it. I’m not you.”

“That much is obvious.” He sounds right irritated, but I don’t give a toss. “You did manage to rise in rank prior to meeting me, so you do have some observational skills. What do you see?”

“I see Mycroft. I see a man touching him. They’re laughing.” Probably at me. “They seem easy with each other.”

“Good observation. Thomas has known Mycroft for years.”

He would be named Thomas, the poaching bastard. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better? Do one, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose. “Now I understand why Mycroft thought I was an idiot when we were children. Lestrade… basic observation, please. Mycroft’s body language.”

I blow out a breath, and look at Mycroft again. “Well… he’s…” I narrow my eyes and look more closely. “Mycroft looks out of sorts. He’s holding a cigarette, and he’s not smoking it. And that touchy bloke is doing all the talking and laughing. Mycroft looks miserable, and he, ah… winces, every time that man puts a hand on him.”

“Right.” Sherlock nods. “Mycroft doesn’t like to be touched… well, it seems you are an exception to the rule, with the kissing and all. So, go on over there and claim him.”

“What?” I admit it freely; I am baffled.

He looks at me, and groans. “You can’t be this dense.”

“Flummoxed.”

“As I said, dense. As much as I hate to admit it, Mycroft knows everything, and is ever aware of all that goes on around him. I excel in the art and science of deduction, but Mycroft’s specialty is omniscience. Very little gets past him. Do not think for one moment that my brother is not aware that we are out here, watching his unfortunate interaction with Thomas, who happens to be a financial wizard, and is needed for a few issues that Mycroft has a finger in.”

“So, he’s brilliant, and knows everything about everything. Great. Reason number five thousand and seven why we’re not right for each other.” I laugh sourly. “But I should go over there and mark my territory, because he’s knows I’m out here spying on him. Right.”

“How utterly tedious it is, having to explain everything. Thomas has been fixated on having Mycroft for years. To no avail, but it doesn’t stop him from trying each time he and Mycroft cross paths. The things he’s offered – a lesser man would jump at them – but Mycroft isn’t fussed. I can’t imagine what Thomas sees in my bland, overblown sibling, other than that he’s powerful, but to each his own. And before you leap to Mycroft’s defence, I don’t know what you see in him either, and don’t care to.” He snags two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and holds them out to me. “Take this over there and save him.”

“Save him how?”

“Oh, please Lestrade… do that disgusting flirty thing you do when you want a suspect to talk. The heavy-lidded, squinting eyes, licking the lips, lowering the pitch of your voice, and that horrid half smile that women have convinced you is sexy… do all of that.”

“I don’t…” Well, maybe I do use my God-given talents to gain the trust of some of the more intransigent suspects… “This is insane.”

“Insanely boring would be a more apt description.”

I take the champagne flutes from him with a frown. “So, just go over there, interrupt with my glasses of champagne, and…what? Challenge that bastard to a duel?”

“No, because you are a horrible shot. I’m sure you recall Baskerville…?”

“Yeah, and fuck you for getting me drugged, you sod.”

“I swear, Lestrade, if I didn’t think my mother would object, I’d kill you and my brother. And then myself. This why I don’t get involved in affairs of the heart. They are trite, emotional, and give me a headache.”

“Remember you have to fly back with me, and I am not pleasant when my heart is broken.”

“I know at least seven ways to put you to sleep,” he scoffs. “And I’m certain you won’t be flying back with me.”

“Whatever.” I square my shoulders, and let out the breath I’d been holding. “I hope you’re right.”

“I am.” To my surprise, Sherlock puts a hand on my shoulder. “There’s… ah… just one more thing before you go, Gavin.”

“Greg.” I hope he Isn’t about to say he was joking about Mycroft being keen, or something equally humiliating.

“I have no doubt that Mycroft is very interested in you, and is trying hard to go against his nature as far as you’re concerned. But you shouldn’t… there aren’t any reasons that you aren’t good enough for him. If anything, it’s him that’s lacking. But as you seem not to mind his numerous shortcomings, you should cease thinking that you’re beneath him.  You’ve managed to capture the attention and interest of the most anti-social man in existence, who trusted you enough to allow you to meet my parents under their real names, and to divulge his rather hideous middle names to. I don’t see the appeal, nor do I even pretend to understand the attraction, but he’s yours for the taking, if you’d stop being such an idiot, and realise that you’ve had the upper hand since this madness began.”

***

**“My brother said that?” Mycroft takes a large swallow of scotch. “I don’t know if I should be honoured, or horrified…”**

**“Be flattered,” Greg says. “And stop interrupting.”**

***

I blink at that. “Sherlock, I – ”

“Still not coming to your ceremony. Off you pop, then.” And he’s off in a swirl of wool and smugness, the bastard.

“Still nice of you to say,” I say to his retreating back. I take a deep breath, and head over to where they’re standing.

Up close, this Thomas chap is even better-looking than I thought. Bright blue eyes, straight, dazzlingly white teeth, and dark curly hair. He frowns at my approach. “No drinks, thank you.”

American accent, tanned, and fit. Damn it. I ignore him and frown at the cigarette Mycroft is holding. “Are you smoking?”

He looks at me, confused for a split second, then pastes an embarrassed smile on his face. “Oh. Not really.” He stubs the cigarette out on the pillar, and tosses it aside.

“You promised you’d have a bit of champagne with me, and you’re out here smoking.” I shake my head. “Who’s your friend, then?”

“Apologies for neglecting you. This is Thomas, a business acquaintance.”

“Oh, come on Mike…” Thomas laughs. “I can’t be only business to you, can I?”

“It’s Mycroft, and you know it’s only business.”

I smile and hand Mycroft one of the champagne flutes. “Sorry I didn’t bring one for you, Thomas.”

“He was just off,” Mycroft says, sipping the champagne.

“Now, look here, whoever you are,” ‘Thomas says. “This is a private meeting, so you can leave your champagne, and come back when we’re done.”

“I’m Greg, Mycroft’s…ah… person of significance, I think we’re calling it.” I hold out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Thomas, the business associate. Lovely tan.”

He ignores my hand (and the compliment) and looks at Mycroft. “Is he saying he’s your boyfriend?”

“Well,” I chuckle, “if we’re going to be grade school about it, I suppose boyfriend is as good a term as any.”

He continues staring at Mycroft. “Really?”

Mycroft ducks his head. “It’s a rather recent development.”

“I’m not begrudging you a love life, but with this guy? You do know he’s been trying to hook up with all the women in the building.”

“He is most definitely a ladies’ man, and can’t help his effect on women… well, everyone, if one were honest,” Mycroft says, his tone dry. “I think it’s the shirt. The colour does suit him, don’t you think?”

“Oh, go on with you.” I can’t help smiling at the compliment, even if he doesn’t mean it. “And I had no choice but to dance with those women, since your business chap here seems to be monopolising your time. You know I’d rather two-step with you than with anyone else.”

“For your information, I’m an investment banker,” Thomas says, sounding a bit snippy. “Not some ‘business chap’. I service some of the wealthiest people in the world, Greg the person of dubious significance. What is it you do?”’

“Oh, me? I work for Scotland Yard. Detective Inspector.”

Thomas laughs at that, and I want to bash his straight teeth down his throat. “Oh, is he what you Brits call ‘a bit of rough’? How cute.” He eyes me from foot to head. “A bit long in the tooth, but I can see the appeal of having one’s own police officer around.”

“Thomas,” Mycroft says, his tone frosty, “I won’t have you disparaging Gregory.”

“Oh, you know I’m just kidding,” Thomas says with a wave of his hand. “You Brits are famous for your humour, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, well, you can take your humour and – ”

“Gregory.” Mycroft gives me a sideways glance, then turns his attention back to Thomas. “Be that as it may, Thomas… I know Greg doesn’t seem like the type I’d go for, but he does have his charms. So, unfortunately, I will have to decline your invitation to spend a portion of the summer at your villa in the Cayman’s. But I do appreciate the offer.”

“Are you sure?” Thomas presses. “I mean, you’re not married yet – hell, you’re not even officially engaged – and I’m sure if you’d just spend a bit of time – ”

Mycroft holds up a hand. “I am certain. I apologise for allowing you to think there was a chance for you and I to become more involved, and I do hope you don’t let that deter you from considering my offer for freelance work for the British government for a short period in the fall. You would be handsomely rewarded for your service to The Crown.” He gives a quick smile, and a piercing look that should end any further discussion on the subject. “A favour for a favour, as they say.”

“Yes, well. All right. I… I’ll let you know.” The smile Thomas directs at Mycroft is tender, and I want to shove him off a cliff. “Keep me posted, okay? If it doesn’t work out, I want to be the first in line.”

I clear my throat. “Still stood right here, you know…”

“Well,” Thomas sighs. “I can’t say I’m happy for you, but good luck, Mycroft. Nice to have met you, Greg. You’re a lucky man.” He looks at Mycroft one last time, and then walks off.

“Rather tall for you, isn’t he?” I ask as he walks off.

“That’s to be your only comment, that he's tall? I expected more shouting.”

“What would be the point? You’ve made it clear that I’m not what you want. And he seems like the kind you’d go for. You should wait a week or two, then look him up. Tell him we didn’t work out, and go to the Caymans with him.”

“Why in the world would I do that? I don’t want to be with Thomas.”

“You don’t want to be with me, either.”

“Gregory.”

“Mycroft,” I sigh. “You know what I think?”

“Of course I do. And it’s rubbish. I did not set this up to make you jealous. Thomas visits every time I’m in America.”

“How nice for you. And no… maybe you didn’t do it to make me jealous, since you’re all about the semantics,” I say with a shrug. “But you wanted me to see that I’m out of my league compared to your wealthy, good looking financial advisor, who summers in the Caymans. You know… versus me, who summers in an office at Scotland Yard. I got the message loud and clear.” I down the champagne in a few gulps, and set the glass on the rocks behind me. “Enjoy the rest of your evening. I’ll see you back in London. Or not. Preferably not.”

“I’m sorry?” Mycroft looks up at me, blinking rapidly. “Where are you going?”

“You mean you don’t know?” It’s such a thrill to see that I’ve managed to confound him again. “Listen… maybe I’m dense, but I thought… I came here because I thought you might be a bit… well, Sherlock said you were keen, that you wanted to marry me, and that you legging it here was part of the game, whatever that means. I came because when you left, you’d said you would consider my proposal… yeah, well, at least I thought you did. But maybe you’d changed your mind in the clear light of day, so I thought if I had a chance to talk to you, I could… I don’t know, put you at ease, and let you know that I wasn’t just asking you to marry me because I wanted to have sex with you, or wanted something from you, or whatever you might have cooked up in that overly active brain of yours. I didn’t think me being here would be a problem for you, but I see I was wrong, since you totally ignored me tonight, and embarrassed me in front of your family by dismissing me. And now this… Thomas chap…” I shake my head. “But since you haven’t made a move in my direction, so I’m just going to chalk it up to Sherlock being wrong, and that you don’t want to marry me.”

“I was…” he hesitates, then sighs. “I scheduled time for you tomorrow afternoon for us to talk.”

“Scheduled time.”

“I am a very busy man.”

“We all know how busy a man you are, Mycroft. And it seems to me that you're most busy when you're supposed to be with me."

"It only appears that way, Gregory."

"It’s the truth. You haven’t time for me, but here you are, out in the dark with your gorgeous investment banker, with his fake tan and dyed hair, trying to romance you out here like he's at a school dance..."

"You’re jealous?"

"Of course I'm jealous, you tosser! He's got money, a villa in the Caymans, and extraordinary financial skills. I can’t manage to balance my chequebook without tears, and as close as I’ll ever get to the Caymans is by watching telly. Why wouldn’t you want him?"

"I'm not interested in Thomas. Other than for his financial acumen and contacts, which will aid me in a particularly hellish matter that I am trying to settle."

"Right, right... a means to an end, just like everything else that comes your way." I hold up a hand as his mouth opens to refute me. “I’ve figured out my place, and I’m done begging, done chasing, and done sitting around waiting for you decide what we’re going to do. I took a chance, and put my cards on the table, but you… You’re so bloody used to playing with people, manipulating them, you wouldn’t know a true emotion if it bit you on the arse.”

“Such harsh words from someone who proclaims to care for me,” he says coldly. “Just a lark, hm? This is why I don’t do this.”

“You obviously do ‘do’ this, since that bloke was very familiar with you, taking liberties and such.”

“And you want to be the one to be taking liberties, don’t you?” His tone has shifted to oily, and he’s got that fucking shark smile that makes me want to punch him. “So very trite, and so very predictable. And it serves no purpose.”

“Oh, it serves my purpose.” I say through gritted teeth. “I’m in love with you, you arrogant sod, and would like nothing more than to be with you. But instead of sitting down and talking it out like an adult, you default to game-playing and manipulation. You don’t even have the decency to say no to my proposal. So, I’m done with it all. Enjoy your solitary life, and your stupid, manipulative games. We’re done.” I nod at him, and with more courage than I feel, I walk away.

***

**Mycroft glares at Sally as she bursts out laughing. “You find that amusing, Sergeant Donovan?”**

**“Oi, menacing,” Greg says, nudging Mycroft’s shoulder.**

**There’s a bit of silence, and then Mycroft clears his throat. “Apologies, Sally.”**

**“It’s all right,” Sally laughs. “And yes, it’s amusing, because I’m sure no one walks away from you like that. You two were meant for each other from scratch, I think.”**

**Andrea snorts at that, but continues typing.**

**“After all you’ve seen on the job, you still believe in hearts and destiny?” Mycroft’s tone is full of sarcasm. “Goldfish.”**

**“Mycroft.” Greg’s tone is full of warning.**

**“Imagine me saying that with much less sarcasm, Sergeant,” Mycroft says while glaring at Greg, who continues to ignore him.**

**“Yet here you are,” Sally counters. “And I don’t think it could have been anyone other than Greg, because he understands you Holmeses. Most people don’t.”**

**“What a fanciful notion, and patently untrue. You presume to know me because of your dealings with Sherlock, but we are nothing alike. In fact, I am far worse.” Mycroft turns to Andrea. “How are we for time?”**

**“Everything is in place, sir,” Andrea says crisply. “Whenever you’re ready.”**

**“Excellent.”**

**“Don’t let us keep you,” Greg says, sipping more scotch. “Sal and I are just going to sit here and get pissed until this case breaks.”**

**“Oh, no…” Sally cuts in. “I want to hear the rest. I’m thinking the next move would be yours, Mr. Holmes. What did you do next?”**

**Mycroft sighs. “I was ready to be rid of it all, honestly.”**

**Greg rolls his eyes at that. “Right.”**

**“Well, my purely logical side was ready,” Mycroft amends. “I was fine with him going, if emotions were left out of it. That is, until Father came the next morning, and… well, he made me see reason….”**

***

Saturday, 7:37am, PST

 

After a night of fitful sleeping, I decide to take advantage of the fresh air by having breakfast on the terrace. Thankfully, the day is slightly overcast, so I can sit outside for a short while without fear of sunburn. The sea is calm, the sky promises to be a lovely blue once the morning clouds dissipate, and the beach is practically deserted, save a lone surfer, dodging in and out of the somewhat high surf. If it weren’t for the fact that I love England so much, southern California would make a good home.

Room service (discreetly vetted by my staff) appears quietly, and efficiently, with a pot of tea, bacon, what I hope is a perfect soft-cooked egg, slices of melon, a bowl of strawberries, and two slices of wheat toast. How very American.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” The young waiter with an unfortunate penchant for being tardy to work due to an affair with his supervisor’s wife takes the bill I’ve signed with a smile.

“No, thank you.”

As he wheels the cart out, my father appears in the door way. “Good morning, Mycroft.”

“Good morning,” I say easily, taking in his casual attire and relaxed posture. “You look rested.” I refrain from pointing out the events of his morning, and wait for him to continue.

“I’ve just come from nice, brisk walk along the seashore. Does wonders for one’s disposition.” He clears his throat. “I’m not imposing on you, am I?”

“Of course not.” As if I could answer any other way. “I was about to have breakfast. Have you eaten?”

“You know your mother is quite fond of sunrise breakfasts,” he laughs, closing the door behind him. “One day, I’ll get used to it.”

“I dare say you won’t.” I gesture at the seat on the terrace. “If you don’t mind me eating while we visit?”

“Not at all.” He sits and gazes out at the ocean. “Rather nice, this. Thank you for seeing to the accommodations. Your mother is very pleased at how it’s all come together. The Vernet Foundation is a roaring success, and that’s all down to your help.”

“Nonsense. Mother is the reason for its success. I only held the doors open as she walked through. She did get my flowers?”

“She did. Very lovely, and she accepts your apology,” he smiles. “Though you shouldn’t be so sharp with her. She only wants to see you as much as she can, you know.”

“I am aware. I was under immense pressure last night, and couldn’t spare the time.” I slice off the top of my egg, and frown. Slightly overdone, but salvageable. I eat a bit of the egg on top of the toast. Passable, I think. “Was there something particular you wished to speak about, Father? Is all well?” Though a glance at his right hand tells me there’s no issue, I find it better for both of us to let him tell me himself, as he is not overly fond of the science of deduction and reasoning, and much prefers talking.

“No, no… all is well. Your mother enjoyed our walk. She’s quite fond of this weather. I find it a bit warm.” He shifts in his seat, and lets out a breath. “It’s about… well, I don’t want you to think that I’m being nosy, or meddling in your affairs, but your mother and I are a bit worried.”

“About…?” I look at his hand again, noting the slight tremor. “Have you taken ill? Shall I fetch a doctor for you?” I take out my phone and look at him with lifted eyebrows.

He looks at his hand, and then back at me with a frown. “I am aware that I have tells that you’re familiar with, but I do wish you wouldn’t do that. It only leads to complications and assumptions.”

I wisely choose not to refute him, and put away my phone. I take up the pot of tea. “I’ll be mother,” I say by rote, and I pour out a cup of tea for us both.

He nods his thanks, and adds a bit of cream to his tea. “Some of the so-called deductions you and your brother see when you look at me are merely signs of old age, son. But that is a discussion for another day.” He taps a finger on the table top, and looks at me. “As I’ve said, I don’t want you to think I’m meddling, but I am curious as to what are you going to do about Greg.”

I swallow the tea a bit too quickly and cough slightly. “I’m sorry?”

“Are you going to marry Greg? You must be out of sorts about him, since you’re usually not this slow.”

I’d narrowed down the possible topics of discussion to three; however, Gregory and marriage were not in the possibilities. I do not wish to discuss Gregory with my father, nor do I want to my father noticing that I may or may not be out of sorts regarding a non-existent relationship. And as much as I loathe including my father in with those who annoy me by meddling in my affairs, he tends to bring such reactions upon himself, and as such, is not exempt from my wrath. I vow to keep it low-key, as he is my father, after all. I give him my best placating smile. “You really shouldn’t involve yourself in things of which you have no knowledge, Father.”

He blinks at my tone (which may not have been as low-key as I intended), but recovers rather quickly. “Oh, well, yes. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says in a splendid combination of steel, long-suffering, and disappointment. He adds more cream to his tea, and sips at it cautiously. “Forgive an old man his curiosity, won’t you?”

I let out a small sigh. “Pardon me for my rudeness. My evening was rather arduous.”

“I certain it was, with all your suitors vying for your affections,” he says with a small smile. “Nearly pistols at dawn, I’ve heard.”

“Not quite. That is to say, Thomas is most certainly not a suitor, and Gregory is…” I frown. “Of no consequence.”

“Honestly?”

“To put it plainly, I have no plans to do anything about Gregory. It’s done.”

“You don’t care for him? You seemed… er, firmly invested in him when I last saw you. And he was most certainly under the impression that you cared.”

“What advantage has caring gotten me, Father? He’s ended it with me because I’m not… he needs more than I can offer him.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mycroft. You honestly believe that you should take advice on caring from Siger Vernet? Your grandfather was a fine man in a business sense, but his notions about how to live life were from a place of bitter selfishness because he lost his true love. Had your mother listened to him, you wouldn’t be here. And for all his talk, he most certainly wanted someone to care for him when he became bed-bound, the arrogant sod.” He clears his throat. “But your grandfather’s influence on you is a subject for another time because it will only make me angry at your mother for allowing you to spend a large portion of your formative years with him.”

My summers at my grandparent’s estate have always been a sore point between my parents, and there will never be a good time to discuss it. “Of course.”

He dips his head in embarrassment. “Apologies for getting sidetracked. I only asked about Greg because he’s utterly besotted with you, and I thought you’d come to feel the same way.”

“It was… spirits were most certainly running high on Valentine’s Day. He knows where we stand.”

“He doesn’t, Mycroft,” my father says gently. “He’s only said he’s done because you hurt him, which I’m sure you didn’t know you did. You can be very callous without meaning to be.”

“Father, please.” I detest being placated, detest being treated ‘gently’, as though I’m some hothouse flower in need of special care. “I may not be well-versed in the art of… romance, or whatever you fancy this is, but believe me when I tell you, it’s all sorted.”

“It has been said that when someone prefaces a statement by saying ‘believe me’, it’s a sure sign that they’re lying.”

I blink a few times at that, and then chuckle. “I tend to be, ah, dismissive of you because you manipulate me into doing so.”

“Fruit falls under the thing that begat it,” he says with a shrug. “And while you are not usually so easily manipulated, I do try to use the occasions when I can do so to my advantage. It’s just better that way. The simpleton, surrounded by the brood of geniuses. The Holmeses aren’t a patch up against your mother’s family tree, but we hold our own. I worked in Intelligence before I met your mother, and my grandmother’s sister holds several hundred patents on inventions that are still in use today, you know.”

“I am aware.” My father’s stint in Intelligence is one of the great secrets of our family. And then there’s my great-aunt Mytilda Holmes, eccentric millionaire, heiress to a fortune, who spent her life inventing useful things. “And I do apologise once again for all of the disparaging insults I hurled at you in my youth. You only wanted what you thought best for me.”

He holds up a hand. “You saw what you wanted to see, son… let the past be the past. Let’s keep this in the here and now, and about you and Greg.”

“There is no ‘me and Gregory’, Father, so please don’t carry on like this.”

“As much as you’re a genius, you could never quite get away with lying to me, Mycroft Holmes, so stop it. I knew from scratch that Greg wasn’t your boyfriend. Mother couldn’t see it because she was so overjoyed at the fact that you’d actually brought someone along, that she didn’t notice that you and Greg were ill at ease with each other. No one is that awkward with their boyfriend of six months.”

“He is a dreadful actor.”

“Greg is a natural, and it came across well because he actually cares for you. You, on the other hand, gave it away, not being comfortable enough with him to spend even a few moments alone with him, even after Valentine’s Day. And he floundered over a few details a boyfriend of six months would know.” He laughs. “Oh, I wish I’d brought along my camera so I could preserve the look on your face. Priceless.”

I sigh and refrain from reminding him that his phone has a camera, because he will take a photo of me, and I will (once again) be forced to tamper with his Facebook account. “Of course. And what is the purpose of this talk? He assisted me on Valentine’s Day, and was handsomely rewarded. While I can’t help his, ah, feelings, I did not invite him here, and regret that things did not go as he expected. I should have told him from the start that I wouldn’t marry him, and I also regret that. However, now that we’ve been honest with each other, he can now return to his life, and I to mine.”

“I understand what you’re thinking, but it won’t work. You’re well on your way to besotted.”

“I am not.”

“You know that feeling that comes over you when you think of him, that wistful smile that you can’t quite hide when you see him? That’s a sure sign. Not to mention you watching him like a hawk last night at the ceremony. Oh,” he laughs at my raised eyebrows, “you didn’t mind him dancing with all those birds, but when that real estate chappie tried to get him to dance, you were quite obvious in your displeasure. So, if you would bow to my expertise in such matters, you most certainly are besotted. Would it really be so bad to let someone in, Mycroft? No man is an island, they say.”

“The mythical ‘they’ say many foolish things, and should mind their business,” I retort. “I am not anything that resembles being besotted, nor do I smile wistfully in any vein. I don’t have the time or energy to devote to having someone in my life in that capacity. Gregory wouldn’t survive me. I am not… like others.”

His eyes go soft. “Oh, son… that’s just the Vernet in you. Your mother felt the same way. All figures and facts, wanting to be alone, with no need for love or feelings until I kissed her that first time and showed her that there was more. Didn’t know what hit her. But at least she only ran to the seaside. Don’t know what I’ve have done if she ran to another country. And when I caught her…”

I clear my throat noisily. “Father, I am aware that you are fond of oversharing, but I’d prefer not to hear the salient details.”

“Greg loves you, Mycroft. In so short a time, too. Something about you types that brings that out in people. I felt the same way about your mother, wanting to throttle her one minute, kiss her senseless the next.”

I blush at the memory of being kissed and throttled by Gregory. “Yes, but… it’s too late now. I’ve… he’s done with me.”

“Yes, I could see that he was utterly gutted when you walked away after your mother’s speech,” he says with a rueful shake of his head. “Why would you do that? And then to be huddled in a cosy nook with that Thomas fellow, who is an arse that isn’t worthy to lace your shoes.”

“I wasn’t huddled – it was business. Thomas is very persistent and thrives on drama. It was my understanding that he had moved on to other interests, and would not press the issue of a relationship.”

“I’m glad that Greg sent him packing. So, now the question remains: are you done with Greg?”

“Does it matter? I won’t chase him.”

Father laughs again. “Of course it matters. And to his credit, he chased you all the way to California, only going on your flighty brother’s word that you cared. A man does have his pride, Mikey.”

“Mycroft,” I say by rote. I am ready to end all discussion on this particular subject, so I put my napkin aside, and stand.

“It’s not a crime for you to take something for yourself, you know.” He finishes his cup of tea, and stands. “Thank you for the tea, son.” He pats my shoulder. “He’s taken the path out to the beach, in case you were wondering. Been there since dawn. Gutted. You should fix this.”

“There isn’t…” The rest of that denial dies on my lips at his raised eyebrows. “Thank you, Father.”

“Parents only want to see their children happy,” he says with a fond smile. “Even Sherlock, for all his quirks and ways, seems happy with his doctor. Oh, I know they’re not…” he waves a hand in the air “…a couple. But there is much to be said for intimate friendships, you know. Someone to follow you to the gallows foot, a person for whom you would do anything, and protect with your whole heart. Sex is such a miniscule part of that. Like the bit of extra butter on a good piece of toast, or a sprinkle of sugar on a perfectly sweet strawberry. You can certainly live without it, but it doesn’t hurt to have it.”

“Oh, rubbish,” I balk, then offer a tiny smile of apology at my tone. “Fanciful, but rubbish nonetheless. I’m not lonely, nor do I need anyone to take care of me, or to have sex with. Should I require any of those things – and I do not – I could have them.”

“Those who aren’t lonely don’t feel a need to say so,” he counters. “If you’re being honest, and you don’t want him, go and put him out of his misery, so he can get on with his life. Shame if you do that, though, because he’s a rather nice chap, and he thinks the world of you, despite your Vernet side.” He squeezes my shoulder and lets his hand drop. “I’m off. I’m going to explore the pier, and your mother has been invited to a bead show, I think they’ve called it. Oh, and if you do go after him with the intent to keep him, change into something less… formidable, hm? It is a beach, after all. A waistcoat is so not on.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “Enjoy yourself. And be sure to call Andrea if you need anything, hm?”

“Of course. Have a good day, son.” He smiles at me again and is off.

I sit down to resume eating, but find I’ve lost my appetite. I push away from the table, and stand against the low wall of the terrace, and contemplate my father’s words. No man is an island, indeed. Emotional drivel, and patently untrue. Well, in the sense that ‘everyone needs someone’ or other pithy sayings that people say to try to convince you that you do in fact need someone. I do not.

However.

There is some truth to my father’s words. I have, much to my dismay, become increasingly fond of Gregory, and do not wish to be done with him. And there is something to be said for having an actual conversation about it. To at least see where it leads.

I lean over the wall, and spy Gregory sprawled out on a chaise lounge, arm thrown over his eyes, cooling cup of coffee in the sand beside him. And damn if Father wasn’t right… I can feel my heartbeat speeding up, and can practically taste the wistful smile on my lips.

Bugger.

Am I done with him? I do not want to have a relationship – well, marriage, really, based on how I am feeling today. I am fond of him, am attracted to him, and can actually imagine having a life with him in it. It would be difficult, of course, but I do think that he is stalwart enough to deal with the drawbacks of being with me.

Well. I seem to have talked myself into it. Now, the only thing left is to apologise and accept his proposal. The odds that he’s angry and won’t want to talk are high; however, perhaps my skill at orating and convincing can be used for a bit of good for myself for a change. And hopefully, being in casual clothing will make a difference. Hopefully.

With much trepidation, I send a text to Andrea, hoping she will assist me without laughing. While I see no reason one can’t wear a waistcoat whilst sitting in a lounge chair on the beach, I can see that it would send the wrong message if one is trying to make amends.

Thankfully, she takes pity on me, and promises that something ‘less formidable’ will be here in less than twenty minutes. She is a marvel, and should be given a medal for her work with me.

***

**“Amen to that,” Andrea mutters.**

**“Is that Vernet as in the artist?” Sally asks.**

**“A distant relative,” Mycroft replies, taking another drink of scotch. “You’ve heard of his paintings?”**

**“My grandmother took me to an art house when I was a kid. The swirling greys and… I guess it’s called starkness… it fascinated me. Do you paint?”**

**“Heavens, no,” Mycroft laughs. “I did try when I was younger, but couldn’t muster the passion for it that Sherlock did. He took up a brush at four, and painted a lovely recreation of the copse of trees that he could see from the bedroom window.”**

**“Bloody geniuses,” Greg grouses, “but can’t figure out relationships for shit.”**

**“I am trying, Gregory,” Mycroft says softly, putting a hand over Greg’s on the table top. “Tell me what I can do to fix this. Please.”**

**Greg takes in a breath to reply, but his mobile rings. He takes it from his coat pocket and looks at it. “Bugger all… there’s been a break in the case.”**

**“Sir…” Andrea stands, and starts gathering her things. “There’s a situation developing that demands your complete attention. Not to make light of the Det – ah, Greg’s issues, but we can’t delay any further. As it is, the Prime Minister is calling for your, ah… head.”**

**Mycroft rolls his eyes and finishes the glass of scotch. “Are you sober enough to go back to work, Gregory?”**

**“Of course,” Greg laughs. “Just need a bit of coffee, and we’ll be right as rain, eh, Sal?”**

**“I want to hear the rest of the story,” Sally says with a pout. She drains her beer, and puts on her overcoat. “Another time?”**

**“Sure, Sal…” Greg slides into his own overcoat. “We’ll have you over for dinner, all right, Mycroft?”**

**“Of course.” Mycroft takes his scarf and wraps it around Greg’s neck in a fancy knot. “You’ll be outside for a good while, so this will keep you warm.”**

**“Smells like you.” Greg fingers the scarf and smiles at Mycroft. “Ta.”**

**“I want to make things right, Gregory. I’ll make this a 24-hour trip, and we’ll talk more over breakfast, all right?”**

**Anthea groans. “Sir…”**

**“Perhaps Sergeant Donovan will help you carry our things to the car…?” Mycroft’s tone makes that less a question and more an order.**

**“Yes, sir.” She gathers her handbag and tablet. “If you don’t mind, Sally…?”**

**“Be my pleasure,” Sally says brightly. She helps Andrea into her coat, and nods at Mycroft. “Hope this all gets settled, Mr. Holmes. Greg is a good man.”**

**“He is, and we’re in it for the duration,” Mycroft nods. “I’ll be out in a moment, Andrea.”**

**Greg smiles as they brush against each other as they make their way outside. “That’s not going to cause you problems, is it?”**

**“Most likely problems for you. Andrea is like a tornado, it seems.”**

**“Well, as I’ve said, Sally is tough, and she survived Anderson, so…” Greg’s brow furrows. “Hang on a minute…you’ve already solved my case, haven’t you?”**

**Mycroft ducks his head. “Partially. And I know you hate when I do that, so I’ll let you see it to its conclusion without interfering. Is it all right if I send coffee around? The wind off that river will give you a chill.”**

**“I really hate Holmeses,” Greg groans. He steps in close, and plants a kiss on Mycroft’s lips. “Hope to see you soon. We need to fix this.”**

**“Yes. We will, Gregory, because I truly do care about you.” He turns to go, and then turns back. “Oh, and have some gum… you smell like you’ve been drinking, and I can’t save you from getting sacked if you divorce me…”**

**Greg laughs and heads out to the car.**

**TBC…**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg’s shirt: http://www.moss.co.uk/dkny-slim-fit-lavender-single-cuff-sateen-shirt-965631306  
> Greg’s tie: http://www.moss.co.uk/moss-1851-purple-paisley-silk-tie-965458419
> 
> I made up the speech, and the foundation name. And I went to such an event the other night, and nerdy women such as myself aren't shy about asking unclaimed guys to line dance. 
> 
> The song for this chapter is Free Yourself by Fantasia, in which she says "If you don't want me, then don't talk to me... go ahead and free yourself..."
> 
> Thank you all for reading and the kudos and the comments. I appreciate you all!


	4. Let's Stay Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gets casual and goes to get his man. But even that's not easy for him. Greg is gutted and still wants it. Someone is going to have to make a concession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I skipped a week. I was experiencing my own heartache, and had zero energy to do anything other than lie about and stare at the ceiling. As thanks for your patience, the next bit will be posted tomorrow evening. 
> 
> As ever, license was taken, typos were overlooked, and the framing of the story is a bit... wonky-ish. I do try. 
> 
> Thank you all for your comments and kudos and patience.

**(So, sometimes the story within a story gets away from you and takes on a life of its own…)**

 

**When we last visited, Father Holmes talked some sense into Mycroft, who went in search of something 'less formidable' to wear so that he could talk to Greg about marriage. In the present, Mycroft and Greg were both called to work, and haven't worked out their issue. But Greg's got Mycroft's cashmere scarf to keep him warm, and so maybe they'll figure it out after all.**

**And now...**

*****  
**

**Greg lets out a low whistle at the sight of Andrea in form-fitting jeans, knee high boots, and an oversized knit jumper, leaning against the door of Mycroft’s town car. “Bloody hell, Sal… don’t let that one get away.”**

**“Well fit,” Sally says, fanning herself with a hand. She gives a shy wave as she and Greg come down the steps of the Yard. “Aren’t you causal today. Gorgeous.”**

**“Day off,” Andrea says with a neutral smile. “I’m here to offer you breakfast, if you’re free, or a ride home, if not.” She opens the car door and waits.**

**“I’m knackered as hell, but I’m hungry,” Greg says, sliding into the backseat. “I’ll take what I can get at this point in the day.”**

**“I could eat,” Sally says, getting in after Greg.**

**“Lovely.” Andrea follows, and shuts the door. After the ride is underway, she says, “Solve the case?”**

**“Mostly,” Greg says with a wide yawn. “Sorry about that. Where is he?”**

**“In his working suite, waiting for you.”**

**“Sounds like someone loves you, Greg,” Sally says. “But what’s a working suite?”**

**“It’s one of the Umbrella Man’s top secret lairs,” Greg laughs. “You’ll have to be blindfolded before we get there.”**

**“Greg,” Andrea tisks. She gives three taps on the partition, and sits back as the car makes a turn. “Don’t listen to him, Sally. It’s a penthouse suite Mr. Holmes uses for work when he’s unable to return home due to multiple meetings or needs to entertain discreetly. Because some people are insecure,” she side-eyes Greg, “there’s to be breakfast and more begging for forgiveness.”**

**Greg shrugs. “You’re just put out because it’s messing with your perfectly scheduled trip. Italy, right?”**

**“Somewhere like that,” she replies with a cautious glance at Sally. “And the fact that he’s** **apologised. Not sure why you’re dragging it out.” Andrea’s tone is part huffy, part exasperation. “There’s this place where the pasta is handmade right in front of you, and the sauce…” She clears her throat. “Right in front of you, Greg...”**

**“Yeah, yeah…and there’s to be shopping,” Greg smirks. “All those leather goodies from expensive shops. Well, no, not sorry, Andy… some things are more important than having a new Katie Spode or Michael Clark, or whoever is all the rage.”**

**“It’s Kate Spade, and Michael Kors, you dolt,” Sally says, patting Andrea’s hand in sympathy. “You go to somewhere like Italy for Gucci and Vuitton, and who wouldn’t love a Hermes or Fendi…or lovely boots. Like these. Very nice.”**

**“Thank you, Sally.” Andrea smiles and crosses her legs, showing off said boots to her advantage.**

**“Careful joining the sisterhood of the travelling handbags, Sal… I’m still in charge of your schedule. Mucking about with this lot will have you working double shifts.” Greg laughs at her pout. “And I’m not dragging anything out. Apologies are easy to say. Change is hard.” He sighs. “You two, sticking your noses in is so not on. But since you’re obviously not going to stop, I’m just going to say that I’m not trying to make him be something he’s not, you know? Just… to realise that I’m not some stray pet he picked up from the rescue.”**

**“You really think he’s not aware of that, Greg?” Andrea asks. “And I thought you didn’t want to change him…?”**

**“God, I really don’t. But some things just don’t work in a marriage. You’re his assistant, his right hand, so you’re used to him being dismissive and business-like. I’m his husband. You don’t do those things to your spouse and think it’s all right.”**

**“I get it,” she groans, “but it’s distracting to not have him one hundred percent focused on his work.”**

**“Oh, please. Him being seven hundred ninety-nine steps ahead instead of eight hundred is a minor blip on the radar, and you know it. How long until we get there?”**

**“Twenty minutes.”**

**“Good.” Greg settles against the door. “I’m going to have a nap. Wake me when we get there. And no snogging while I’m in the car.”**

**Sally shakes her head. “You’d love it, perv.”**

**With a yawn, Greg says, “Too soon…” and closes his eyes.**

*******

**Andrea opens the suite door and shoves the keycard in the pocket of Greg’s shirt. “He’s of a mind to stay here for a few days, and would like you to stay with him. That’s if you’re still keen on staying married.”**

**“We’ll see,” Greg says through a yawn. He whistles at the expensive furnishings. “Though a bloke could get used to this…”**

**“Lush,” Sally says, turning in a circle. “If you chuck away your husband, I’ll take him.”**

**“He doesn’t fancy birds, Sal,” Greg chuckles, “but he might keep you about just to upset Sherlock.” He yawns again. “I’d kill for about twelve hours of sleep, but I’ll settle for a toothbrush and a splash of water on my face. You’re getting coffee, Andy?”**

**“Of course,” Andrea says, putting her things on the coffee table. “Sally, if you want to make use of the facilities, go right through the kitchenette to your left. There’s a toothbrush, towels… whatever you need, help yourself. I’ll order breakfast. Any requests?”**

**“Espresso shots,” Greg calls out as he goes up the stairs. “And the eggs with the spinach would be nice.”**

**At the top of the stairs, strong hands grab him, and pull him into an embrace. “Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice is rough, and pitched low. “I’m pleased you’re here.”**

**“Well, one could hardly refuse when Umbrella Man sends for you.” Greg relaxes against him, breathing in the familiar scent of Mycroft’s soap and aftershave. “God, you smell divine.” After a few moments, he pulls back and looks at him. “You look like death on a biscuit. Have you slept? Eaten?”**

**“I’ve only just finished a conference call, and have another scheduled in ninety minutes. This is the first break I’ve taken since…it may have been yesterday. I won’t be disturbed whilst we have breakfast.”**

**“I doubt that, but all right.” He yawns and presses his face into Mycroft’s neck. “I’m knackered, but if I can just get a bit of hot water on my face, and this layer of fuzz off my teeth, I’ll be right as rain.”**

**“Hm.” Mycroft lifts Greg’s head up with a gentle hand. “Gregory,” he says softly, then presses a kiss on his lips.**

**“Yes,” Greg says against Mycroft’s lips. His hands go down, caressing Mycroft’s back, then up to the nape of his neck. He looks up with a soft smile. “Your eyes are stormy and grey.”**

**“Are they?”**

**“Your eyes tend to be blue most of the time. But when you’re unsettled, they go grey. Scary.”**

**“Could be that it’s been seven days since I’ve been this close to you. I’m fighting the urge to back you into the bedroom, pin you to the bed, and just…” He shudders and takes a step back. “Gregory…”**

**“I know, love,” Greg says softly. “We’ll work it out. Let me have a wash, and something to eat. I’m running on fumes.”**

**“I can arrange breakfast in bed for you, if you’d rather sleep.”**

**“No, I’m cool.” Greg frowns. “It’s not an issue that Sally’s here, is it?”**

**“Of course not,” Mycroft says. “It keeps Andrea from nagging at me about schedules and Italy. Stop worrying about it, please.”**

**“Will do.” Greg smiles. “Go on down. I’ll be there in a tick.”**

*******

**“Thanks for having me, Mr. Holmes.” Sally piles eggs and bacon on a plate and seats herself at the large dining table.**

**“My pleasure,” Mycroft says easily. He pours espresso in a demitasse cup, and hands it to Greg. “You really shouldn’t have this. You need to sleep.”**

**“Paperwork,” Greg groans, accepting the cup with a smile. “And thanks for convincing the Superintendent to have it sent round. The thought of spending half the day in my office chair gives me hives.”**

**“Being married to him has upped your value, Greg,” Sally laughs.**

**“Oh, go on with that.” Greg downs the espresso shot in a few gulps, ignoring the heat. “Nice.”**

**“Surprised you tasted it,” Andrea observes, tapping away at her tablet. “Sir, the call is set for eleven. Is there anything else you need me to see to?”**

**“You’ve alerted Lady Brentley?”**

**“She’ll be here at the scheduled time, as per.” She sets the tablet aside, and spoons some yoghurt into a bowl, and tops it with muesli. “Please eat something, sir.”**

**Greg frowns at Mycroft’s empty plate. “Really?” He takes the bowl from Andrea and sets it in front of Mycroft. “Unless you’d like me to feed you, I’d suggest you have a bite.”**

**“I’d prefer some toast and tea, if I’m to be treated like a wayward child,” Mycroft says. “I believe that’s an assam golden tip in the Wedgewood pot…?”**

**Andrea shakes her head and pours out a cup of tea. “I’m sure you can get your own egg and toast…?”**

**“Of course.”**

**Sally pours a cup of coffee, and sips at it cautiously. “So, Mr. Holmes… what happened after your father told you to go and ask Greg to marry you?”**

**“Oh, yes…” Greg smiles. “He called for some casual clothing.”**

**“I had a bit of fun with that,” Andrea says. “I went with Ralph Lauren’s California collection. Tan chinos, blue shirt, with a t-shirt under it, and top siders. He looked adorable.”**

**“You can be fired on your off day, Andrea.” Mycroft slices the top of his egg and smiles at the perfectly cooked yolk. “I looked like a tourist. And you forgot the hat. The resulting sunburn and peeling skin left me irritable for days.”**

**“How could you tell?” Greg nips a toast point from Mycroft’s plate and bites into it. “But even with all that, it took him about two hours to get to the point. As usual.”**

**“You exaggerate, as usual,” Mycroft replies. “I knew what I wanted, but getting there was not easy. And I had to walk in sand to get to him…”**

*******

“You’re going to be arrested, lying out here in your pants.”

Not my best opening salvo, but I admit to momentarily losing my train of thought as I look down at Gregory, who is sprawled out on a lounge chair, with his gorgeously tanned thighs barely contained in what I assume he was told are swimming shorts. Just this side of indecent those shorts are, in an appalling shade of yellow, and him, shirt unbuttoned, showing off his lovely, bare chest, that is just beginning to turn a lovely golden brown. Christ… I clear my throat, and try to regain some semblance of sanity. “And you couldn’t have used a lounge chair nearer to the pathway? My shoes are filled with sand.”

He looks at me over the top of his sunglasses, his lips turned up in a smirk. “They’re not pants, they’re swimming shorts. And don’t you just look bloody gorgeous dressed like the common man. You picked a hell of a time not to have your umbrella – you're going to add more freckles to your collection. Shame I won’t get my wish.”

I fight off a shiver of desire as I recall his heated words about wanting to see if I’m freckled all over. “Yes, well… this weather is just another reason I can’t relocate to southern California.”

“Was that a consideration?”

“A fanciful one.”

“The commonwealth would fall if you weren’t there,” he laughs, then sobers. “What are you doing out here? I mean, besides ogling me.”

“I am not ogling you. Just concerned that your ah, swimwear might get you arrested. You are my guest… it would be embarrassing for us both should trouble arise.”

“They told me these were like the ones James Bond wore. You don’t like them?”

“Irrelevant,” I say, refusing to rise to the bait. “Could you remove your sunglasses? I’d like to speak to you, and would much prefer to see your eyes.”

“God forbid you shouldn’t be able to see my eyes when you tell me I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Don’t act like you wouldn’t.” He pushes the glasses to the top of his head. Glancing at him, I can see that there are dark smudges under his eyes, and he’s smoked three cigarettes since waking. And damn if Father wasn’t right – he looks gutted. “So. What’s on today’s agenda, then? Come to tell me you’re going to the Caymans, and that I should look out for Sherlock? I know my place, Mycroft. Your brother will still have his cases. You coming to tell me in person is really rubbing it in, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gregory. I haven’t come here for that. I, ah…” I find myself at an uncharacteristic loss for words. “Well. I was more confident in what I would say as I walked here.”

“That’s got to be a first,” he laughs. “And probably the first time you’ve ever had sand in your shoes.”

“This is what you’ve done to me. I am trudging through sand, which I hate, wearing…” I grimace as I look down at my clothes. “…chinos, as Andrea’s said they’re called, and this shirt, which, while it is not your typical off-the-rack sort of shirt and is a lovely shade of blue, is rather revealing, even with the vest underneath. I look like an advert for older chaps who sail.”

“But let’s stay on topic, shall we?”

I clear my throat at the exasperation in his tone. “Here I am because you’ve managed to convince me to forego my routines, and do your bidding. Touching you, when I don’t touch people, telling you my secrets when I prefer to keep silent, exposing you to my parents, which I have never done for anyone, kissing you, wanting you, wanting things I shouldn’t… I’ve gone mad, Gregory, and it’s all down to you.”

To my surprise, he laughs. “Down to me? I don’t know whether I should be horrified or pleased.”

“This isn’t funny, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“And there’s the sodding prick I fell in love with,” he says angrily. “It must make you all kinds of angry that someone as common and rough as me found a way to get to you, melted a bit of that ice, and made you human, yeah? So you play with me, with my feelings, because you don’t know how to deal with emotions or with feelings like a normal person. And can’t just ship me off to Siberia or wherever you send people who you don’t want to deal with because no one except me will work your tosser of a brother, or take your creepy calls in the middle of the night.” He shoves a hand through his hair, and swings his legs over the side of the chair. “I was right from the day you asked me to help you. You are an arsehole.” With a growl of frustration, he gets up and brushes past me, heading straight for the water.

“Gregory, wait.” I turn, and once again allow myself to be distracted. His arse and those swimming shorts are a match made in heaven. Well, hell, since I can’t seem to focus. I shake myself mentally, and follow him to the shoreline, hoping that he doesn’t decide that it’s a good time for a swim. The water looks murky, and heaven knows what’s in it. “If you could spare a few minutes before you take your swim…?”

“I’m not going to swim.” He turns quickly, eyes flashing with anger. “What do you want, Mycroft?”

“I am… concerned.” Again, I kick myself for not being truthful.

“Concerned?” he laughs scornfully. “Look… don’t worry about me. There won’t be any more declarations, ultimatums, or chasing you about. Sorry that I couldn’t get a flight out until tomorrow morning, but I’ll stay well away from you.”

“That’s not what I meant!” I squeeze my eyes shut, annoyed that he can frustrate me so quickly, and so thoroughly. “I came here to ask you… well, not to ask you, but to see… ah…what are your plans?”

“Oh, I’m certain you know exactly what I’ve got planned down to the second, but I’ll play along, if this is you, trying to be friends.”

“I don’t have friends,” I say by rote.

“No shit,” he says sourly, then shakes his head. “All right, then. Let’s see if my plans and your deduction of my plans match.”

“I’m not playing deductions with you, Gregory.”

“You’re always playing deductions,” he says sourly. “So… I was thinking I’d have a wander down the road to that chippie where I’ve heard bikers hang out. Sherlock was round there last night, and said they make a decent fish and chips. Or I suppose I could take advantage of the hospitality Andrea offered for the ‘inconvenience’ that wanting to marry you may have caused, and try out a few of the amenities and such. You know… spa treatment, champagne, cheese plate.”

I frown at that. “Any inconvenience you’ve suffered is my fault, Gregory. I didn’t ask Andrea to offer you anything, if that’s what you’re thinking.” And I must speak to her about her phrasing.

“I’m certain you didn’t, but she’s so good at making your life easier, she probably just figured it’s what you wanted.” He shrugs. “I’m feeling pretty adventurous. Maybe I’ll take that pretty blonde up on the offer of a surfing lesson. Always wanted to give it a go.”

I draw in a shaky breath, angry that Father neglected to divulge that there is a woman with whom I’ve got to contend. “What pretty blonde?” I say in my most demanding tone. “Are you speaking of the woman who asked you to dance last night?”

“What? No… the bloke in charge of the front desk. His name is Kirby… nice chap, too. Well fit, young, but he’s got a maturity about him that’s quite attractive. He brought me a coffee this morning, and had one of the staff move this chair down here. He liked my swimming shorts, too,”

“Did he?” I snipe, unable to help myself. I recall the young man in question – mid-twenties, tousled blonde hair bleached by hours spent in the sun, tall, with a fit physique, presumably from surfing, and an easy smile, sniffing around after my Gregory. The thought of anyone daring to touch him, or heaven help me, get him in the water in those shorts fills me with inexplicable anger. I tamp it down, and look at him. “He could be a fledgling serial killer for all you know, flattering, then luring tourists away and disposing of their bodies in the ocean. And he’s young enough to be your son.”

He snorts, looking at me with that pitying look I hate so much. “Seriously, Mycroft? You’ve binned me, remember? You don’t get to be jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.” And to my chagrin, I sound completely jealous.

“I know… you’re not jealous, not lonely, not in need of anyone to take care of you, not interested in a relationship, not the British government,” he says, his tone snappish. “Got it.”

“Merely concerned for your well-being, Detective Inspector. You’re very trusting, and I’d hate for someone to take advantage of your kindly nature.”

“Well, for the record, and as previously stated, the ‘detective inspector’ part is not an honorific. I didn’t get there by being good-natured, trusting, or kindly. And I certainly don’t appreciate you using my title in that condescending tone. You said it the same way last night.”

I frown at that. “I don’t recall doing so.”

“I’m sure you don’t, since you dismiss all your underlings in the same way.”

“I don’t consider you an underling,” I return. “I do apologise, as it wasn’t my intention to be sharp with you. I am aware that I can be very impatient when there’s work to do.”

“Oh, don’t I know it.” He sighs. “I just don’t understand… You don’t want me, but you’ve got the nerve to not want anyone else to have me. Mycroft, you can’t have it both ways. You’ve made up your mind, and I’m moving on. What’s all this?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I hedge.

“Liar,” he says sharply. “Sherlock says you’re aware of everything that goes on around you, that you’re at least five steps ahead of everyone, and that you specialise in omniscience.”

“Sherlock exaggerates. Always has.”

“Right. I may be as I’m dumb as a bag of rocks compared to you lot, but I know omniscience means all-knowing. I’m certain there’s not much you don’t know about. Including Kirby. And me.”

“You are by no means dumb, and shouldn’t put yourself down in that fashion, Gregory. There isn’t anything about this... well, you, specifically, that I'm certain of.”

“I don’t believe you, but so be it. So, what did you come down here for? Don’t you have work to do? You know, governments to topple, economies to manipulate, and all that secret stuff you do?”

“There’s always something that needs my attention.”

“Surprise, that.” He splashes up a bit of water with his foot, then looks at me. “What do you want, Mycroft? You didn’t come out here dressed like a Ralph de la Renta advert to see what my plans are.”

“Ralph Lauren,” I correct, refusing to acknowledge the compliment, even though I am pleased at his words. “I wanted to ask… that is, I wanted you to know… this whole situation is a fiasco of my doing. I admit to obfuscating and to attempting to manipulate you in every conceivable way possible to get what I wanted. Regrettably, those are stripes that I cannot change. Well… I am trying, in respect to you.”

“Yes, as I said, manipulative. But…” He’s quiet for a moment as the tide rushes over his feet, then he looks back at me. “One question, and we’ll just go back to the way we were, yeah?”

I won’t agree to that. “What’s the question?”

“Why did you give me those Chelsea Buns? I’ve thought about everything you’ve done since I came to Baker Street that day, but the Chelsea buns….? Andrea’s said she didn’t have anything to do with that part of my day, and that you did it on your own. But… there’s no way you could just deduce that about me, right? You know… that they mean something special to me, that the smell of them makes me... erm, I get sentimental.”

“I do know that.”

“No one knows that,” he counters with a shake of his head.

“If one knows what to look for, one does,” I say with a touch of arrogance.

“Yes, yes… we all know what a clever-clogs you are, Mycroft. Just… tell me, hm?”

Acknowledging the sensitivity of the matter with a nod of my head, I take a step closer. “Gregory…” Bugger. I want to lie, to brush him and his soulful eyes off like lint. But I find that I cannot. Heaven help me, this is horrible. “The truth is that I gave them to you because I wanted to make you happy. I gathered – and by gathered, I mean deduced – that your grandmother made them for you regularly when your father died, and your family went to live with her when your mother had to return to work. You had to go to a new school, make new friends, start all over, and you were only… ten, I believe? Your siblings were younger, so they weren’t as affected as you were.”

“Greer wasn’t born yet when my dad died,” he says, looking off into the distance.

“You were bullied at school, and became sullen and withdrawn. While your uncle took a more practical approach to the problem - boxing lessons - your grandmother decided to use a more comforting approach, and baked those buns every Sunday so that you wouldn’t feel alone. You helped sprinkle on the sugar and the currants, and sat there in the kitchen as they baked. You most likely talked about your day, and your sense of fairness developed during that time. And as such, the smell of freshly baked Chelsea buns never fails to bring a wistful smile to your face, just like the one you’re wearing now.”

“That’s amazingly accurate.” He looks at his hand. “You got all that from my right thumb?”

“When you are feeling particularly stressed, you, ah, well, you nibble at the inside of your right thumb. After watching you do it a few times, I surmised that it was a subconscious gesture on your part, and made the connections.”

“Never wanted to wash my hands after helping my Gran make those buns.”

“So, in a nutshell, not manipulating you in that respect. I was trying, and evidently failing, to show you that I...” I’m not ready to complete that sentence. Even though he looks devastatingly sexy and makes me want to pin him down in this horrid sand and have my way with him. “I’m not always a tosser, to coin a phrase.”

“Sherlock said you did it to try to get me to help you.”

“Sherlock doesn’t know everything, Gregory. And his version of me is tainted by his childhood memories. I’d like to think I’ve evolved somewhat,” I defend.

“He knows you better than anyone,” he huffs. “There must be some truth to what he’s told me.”

“He knows what I allow him to know. And it cemented your feelings for me, correct? You discovered that I could be what you’ve termed ‘mental’, and still be capable of doing something thoughtful was a boon as far as your feelings go.”

“Yes,” he says quietly. “And so now what do I do? You obviously don’t… what’s the purpose of all this?”

“I know it seemed that I manipulated you into pretending to be my date, but it wasn’t that way at all. It was you I wanted all along. I'd always considered you attractive, and you coming to Baker Street that day was rather fortuitous. You surprised me by not jumping at the chance, because it showed that all the things that I’d read about you being fiercely independent and above board were all true. And your fire… oh, my dear Gregory, you should know that no one has ever walked away from me, or called me names as you did. I found you refreshing, and rather intriguing. I wanted to get to know you, but it was so far outside my comfort level, I had no idea how to go about it. I do love a challenge.”

“I know.”

“And yet…”

“Mycroft.” His tone is fraught with confusion and misery. “You can’t just… Shit. I want it so much.”

“Why? Can’t we just… we can have sex, you can get it out of your system, and we’ll return to the status quo.”

“This isn’t about sex, you arse,” he says angrily. “I could have had you on Valentine’s Day, if that’s what I wanted, because you were gagging for it as much as I was. All your massaging, and shirt throwing, and rubbing against me, talking about pleasure and wanting. That’s just the starters. I’m talking about something deeper, something meaningful, something long lasting.”

As if I didn’t know that. “I want that as well.”

“Do you?” His tone is dripping with disbelief. “Could have fooled me.”

“I… I really want to… marry you.” There. I’ve said it. “But there are so many things…”

“Such as?” He folds his arms across his chest. “Is it me? Not fancy enough for you? Maybe you’d prefer a simpering idiot who’s all shined up, and won’t mind you being an arse, instead of a rough copper like me, who’s got a strong will, and won’t just do what you say.”

“If you’re going to be ridiculous...”

“Then tell me,” he demands. “Stop all this hemming and hawing, and be honest.”

“I do not hem, nor do I haw.”

“Yes, you do. And the first step to fixing a problem is acknowledging that you’ve got one. You’ve been avoiding the real reason you came out here since you first stepped on the sand. I’m not a Holmes, but I am a detective, and I saw you and your father out on the terrace earlier. I know he told you I was out here, moping about after you.”

“Gutted, he said.”

“Not far from it,” he says, ducking his head. “I wouldn’t have come here if Sherlock hadn’t said that you wanted me to come, and that you felt the same as I do. Then your father comes along and says the same thing. So, are they just projecting what they want, or do you really want this? You say you want it, but you sound like you’re about to be hanged. I just wish you’d stop playing about, and say what’s on your mind, Mycroft.” To my surprise, he digs out a pack of cigarettes from somewhere in the lining of those shorts, and shakes one out. He narrows his eyes at me as he lights it with a cheap lighter (which was also somewhere in those shorts). “And this is what you’ve done to me.”

“Cigarettes, Gregory?”

“Kirby got them for me. Said if smoked well away from the hotel, no one would mind.”

“He should know that it is against the law to smoke on a beach in California.”

“This is a private beach.” He curls the smoke in his mouth with his tongue, and then blows a stream of smoke upward.

Saints in heaven, that’s sexy. “It isn’t exempt from the law,” I say, barely managing not to croak like a pre-teen whose voice is changing.

“Well, I’m certain you can stop me being arrested. Probably got the bloody president on speed dial.” He makes a phone gesture with his hand up to his ear. ‘Hullo, is that Barack? Mycroft Holmes here. I’m in a bit of a spot and need your help…’ And suddenly a black helicopter is overhead and a ladder is dropping.”

“As if I would call him anything other than Mister President.”

“If anyone could get away with calling him by his first name, it’s you. ‘Oh, come along, Mycroft. You know I told you to call me Barack…’, and there it is.” He takes another puff on the cigarette, then holds it out to me. “Have a drag.”

“Horrid imitation.” I roll my eyes, and against my better judgment, take the cigarette. As I take a deep draw, I nearly choke at the onslaught of menthol in my throat. “What the hell is this?” I manage to gasp out between coughs. “Poison?’

“Yeah, it’s poison, you berk. My fiendish plan is all coming out now.”

“I prefer low tar,” I sniff, smothering another cough.

“Still smoke your first brand, I’ll wager,” he mocks. “Like a teenager in the attic with your Dunhill’s. Lightweight.”

I fight not to blush at his words, which are quite close to the truth. “There’s a reason you sound like a frog in the morning. Menthol.”

“I only smoke when I’m stressed. Once we get all this settled, I’ll go back to the patches.” He shoves the pack of cigarettes back in the lining of his shorts, and clears his throat. “Listen, Mycroft,” he says, his tone soft and full of regret, “you don’t owe me anything. We can just go on as before. I just wish you’d said no from the first, and not got my hopes up. Waiting all those bloody weeks like some fifth form lad, hoping to hear from you, thinking you might have some tiny bit of feeling for me.” He kicks up more water. “Stupid.”

“No, Gregory, you aren’t stupid. And if I’m being completely honest, the answer isn’t no,” I say it quickly but clearly, just so there’s no chance of him mishearing me.

“Looks like a no from where I’m standing.”

“It isn’t.” I take another draw on the cigarette, cough, and then frown when I realise what I’ve done. This is what he does to me. “And now you’ve got me smoking, Gregory.” I pinch the end of the cigarette, putting it out. I contemplate tossing it into the water, but recall something about pollution. I crush the remains in my hand and let the dregs fly with the wind. I clear my throat. “I want to… be with you. But there are so many things that prevent me from saying yes. You’re asking me to give up my way, to give in and be… yours. I can’t.”

“Won’t,” he counters. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You're not wrong to a certain extent.” I frown. “I do not want to rely on you, do not want to have an out when things get to be ‘too much’ – whatever that entails. I can’t want those things. You will tire of me, become frustrated because I don’t behave the way you expect me to. Someone I’ve angered will discover you as my weakness and harm you. There are no less than two thousand reasons a relationship between us will not work. And I’m afraid that I’ll get used to having you in my… in my sphere, and you’ll go because our relationship will never be normal, and where will that leave me? For that reason, I have chosen to be alone. But I do appreciate you asking.”

“You’re just brilliant at the goodbye speeches, aren’t you? Well, I wouldn’t leave you for any of those reasons. I’m not going in blind – I’m well aware you’re mental – and am prepared for most eventualities of life with you. And, just so you know, relationships aren’t all about what one person wants, Mycroft.”

“And that is why I don’t have relationships.” I grimace at the bad taste the word leaves in my mouth. “I don’t know how to do what you’re asking. I am not normal.”

“Don’t I know it.” His tone is full of resignation. “I think I’m done listening to you.”

“I don’t want to part on bad –”

“Hush,” he cuts in. “We aren’t parting. I just think we should do this my way, since I’m the one with experience.”

“Loads.”

“Oh, that bothers you? Lessen my value a bit?”

“Don’t be silly. But, yes, it does give me pause,” I admit. “Perhaps this will end like the others. And I’d be another notch on your marriage belt.”

“Shit, Mycroft, even a marriage between best mates has a fifty percent chance of ending in divorce.” He jumps a bit as the tide rushes over his ankles and up his calves. “My first wife and I… we were just kids, and she had me hot as a furnace all the time. We shagged every chance we got, and then she was pregnant, and I married her. The baby didn’t… she lost it at three months, and we never recovered from that. The second – Caroline – couldn’t hack being left alone so much of time, and I suppose I was neglectful while trying to rise up in the ranks, so she took up with our neighbor, Kevin, the bloody PE teacher, whom she eventually married. Could never seem to find someone who really got me, you know. And now there’s you, and you aren’t like anyone I’ve ever met, ever even considered having a relationship with. You’re a bloody genius – frighteningly so – and you’ve got a hand in every pie that’s been baked. Even those that haven’t, I’m certain. But you’re also sexy, funny, and you get me, even though we’re total opposites. And damn, it’s the big fish that fight for hours before you just have to club them over the head and drag them into the boat.”

“I’m not a fish.”

“Yes, you are. A great hulking blue marlin… the kind of fish every fisherman dreams of catching, you know? Out in the deep sea, hiding out, darting to the more shallow water, taking the bait, and then you have to fight with it for hours to get it on the boat. That’s you, fighting like hell not to care about me, but you do, and it frightened you so much, you ran all the way to bloody America. What a berk.”

“I was hardly frightened, Gregory,” I correct. “I had business to attend to. It was rather fortuitous that I could kill so many birds with one stone.”

His eyebrows rise, and he folds his arms across his chest. “So I’m just a bird to you?”

“Not at all. I was being metaphoric.”

“Being an arse, you mean. You can’t help it, just like last night, trying to make me jealous with that tosser, Thomas, all, tanned, and rich. That what you want?”

“Thomas is useful in some respects.” I look him over. “But it appears that my traitorous tastes run in the opposite direction.”

“Ah, so that’s why you’re plotting to kill poor Kirby for wanting to teach me to surf.”

“I am definitely not plotting to kill him,” I say with an eye roll at the utter ridiculousness of Gregory’s perception of my so-called power. To send him far away, maybe… “However, that he’s using surfing as an excuse to put his hands on you in those swimming shorts is a cause to feel animosity toward a virtual stranger.”

“Not that it would have been your business had I decided to let him take liberties, but lucky for you, that’s not what I want. And I’m willing to give you another chance. Do you trust me?”

“Heavens, no.”

“Good. Let’s go and get this settled.”

“I’m sorry?”

He groans. “Keep up, Mikey. We have to get your magical assistant to get things moving so we can get married. California is the best place for it, too. Very open toward same sex couples wanting to tie the knot. Don’t you know a judge or two?”

“Stop calling me by that horrendous nickname, Gregory.”

“Sorry. Keep up, Mycroft. Is that better?”

I swear I hear him calling me an arse under his breath, but I’ve more pressing matters to settle. “We can’t get married in haste. We’re too…”

“We are,” he agrees. “But you should leave the romance to me, because you are bollocks at it.”

“I do not like romance.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed. What I did notice is that you like to be kissed. And you like me touching you, and you like to touch me. You like my arse, too.” He smacks said arse, and smiles at me. “Bloody perfect reasons to get married, because I feel the same.”

I avert my gaze away from his arse, and shake my head. “It’s no wonder you’re twice divorced. You’re in love with the idea of being married, and you accept so little.”

“We like each other, we understand each other, and you care about me. We both care about Sherlock, and at the end of the day, we go home, knowing we’ve made the country a bit safer. Not a bad foundation, all told.”

“It’s not that simple,” I protest, wanting to bash my head against a wall. “We’re not even United States citizens – it wouldn’t be legal and binding in our country.”

“I’m sure you, with your so-called minor position in the British government, can take care of all that.”

“And we can’t get married just because we care. Caring isn’t an advantage, Gregory, and it won’t make things right when they go sour.”

“And that’s where you’re wrong, Mycroft.” He moves out of the water to drier sand, and I grimace at the sand clumping on his feet. “I get it; it’s complicated, and I’m making it simple. That’s because to me, it is… hell, I’m simple. And I want to marry you, to be with you when you need someone to come home to, when you need to be kissed, when you want to hold someone, to be frustrated at or with, to laugh with, someone who can just be yourself with and not have to be so… you all the time. I know it’s not in your nature, and I’m taking a big risk that you’re not too old a dog to teach new tricks, but I’m willing to be there, if you’ll let me. Please trust me to do that.”

“With such flowery prose, it’s no wonder you’ve got men and women clamouring for your attention. And whilst I’m certain a lesser man would be greatly moved to be referred to as a hulking blue marlin, and an old dog, I am not.” I fold my arms across my chest, and look at him intently. “Tell me... as your, ah, husband, what would I be expected to do for you in return?”

“You trusting me to take care of you is a gift, you arse.” He shakes his head. “Obviously, I don’t expect you to act all lovey-dovey and such, because I’m certain that would be a sign of the apocalypse.”

“Definitely,” I agree.

“All I want… well, you wouldn’t nag, or shag the PE teacher, or ring me up to make sure I’m aware it’s the anniversary of the first time we ate a curry together and you know I’m at a crime scene, would you?”

“Hardly.”

“And I’m certain you wouldn’t accuse me of having it off with someone else when I’m working late, would you? No, because you’re a Holmes, and you’d know. So, yeah… that’s a pretty good start.”

“But surely nothing on which one should base a marriage,” I insist. “Shouldn’t there be more? Or are you actually willing to settle for so little?”

“This is why I should have just dragged you off to the register’s office and got it done. You think too much. Of course there’s more, but it’s… you know, incidental. We get on. You understand me, and I think you’re a git. But that’s a plus because opposites attract, right?”

“Only in science. And that’s a dreadful basis for a marriage.”

“See…? That’s you, being a git. I know that, and accept it.” He smiles. “And as much as you’re trying not to say, you want to do it, but you’re fighting it because you’re looking for something logical in it. Well, love, desire, lust, emotion… there’s no logic, Mycroft. It just is. Now…” He takes in a deep breath, and blows it out hard. Then he takes my hand and drops a grey seashell on my palm. “Reminds me of your eyes when you’re feeling passionate. Stormy grey, with streaks of blue. Found it under the pier and thought of you.”

I frown as the meaning of him giving me the seashell becomes clear. He’s… oh, dear god… I’m not prepared for this. “Gregory, please don’t. I’m not – ”

“Mycroft Archimedes Edmund Holmes,” he cuts in, “this is your one and only chance. If you want to marry me, ask me now. If you don’t want this, say it right here, right now, and I’ll go, and you won't be bothered by me ever again.”

“I…” I look at the seashell, then at him, his dark eyes so earnest and hopeful. How did my life come to this? How am I… caring for him, wanting him, wanting this? God in heaven, save me from this utter madness. And of course, no deity is within miles of here, and even if so, most likely would not help me.

Perhaps it’s not all so bad. And it might actually work between us. Of course there are a million reasons why I shouldn’t, but the one reason I will is him, unafraid to be vulnerable with me, and daring to take me on. Throwing caution, common sense, and any semblance of self-preservation to the wind, I pocket the seashell, take his right hand, and slip the watch that I’d been keeping in my pocket on to his wrist.

“What’s this, then?” He looks like he’s about to faint. “Mycroft…”

I put a finger on his lips. (God, so soft…) “Quiet, please, and listen.” I take away my finger, clear my throat, and look directly into his eyes. “Gregory Allain Francois Lestrade, I would like you to marry me. It seems that against my better judgment, and calling my sanity into question, I’ve come to care for you. And though it is total madness, and will most likely end in me being committed to a mental institution, I would like to have you in my life. As my husband.” I hold up a hand to stave off his ebullient reply. “However, I reserve the right to have the marriage annulled if it turns out that I am suffering from insanity, dementia, hallucinations, or am experiencing lucid dreaming.”

“Mental. And the worst proposal ever,” he says with a bright smile. He looks at the watch for a long moment, then frowns. “Carrera… Heuer, as in Tag Heuer? Mycroft this is – ”

“How is it that you know about watches, but can't get a clothing designer's name right if your life depended on it?"

"Watches are interesting," he says. "Who cares about the bloke making the clothes as long as they fit?"

"Of course. Well, since you're interested, it was my grandfather’s watch,” I say, not meeting his eyes. “I didn’t want to give you anything as common as a ring, since you’ve already got two. I didn’t think you’d mind a vintage watch. Sentiment has its uses, it seems. This is me, caring. Horrible.”

“If you had this watch with you since you traipsed out here, that means you planned to marry me all along! What a bloody tosser!”

“Calm yourself, Gregory,” I say. “There was a forty-three point-nine-seven-one chance that you would actually agree to marry me, despite what my father said. Consider yourself irresistible. And I don’t traipse.”

“Oh, you traipse, all right,” he laughs. “And you’re a manipulator of the highest degree.”

“And now you’re stuck with me.” As I say it, I find that I don’t actually mind. “Can we go back to the hotel now? This sand is giving me a headache."

“Such a priss. I knew you’d ask,” he crows. “Give us a kiss to seal the deal.”

I lift an eyebrow at the absurdity. California may well be a progressive state, and the private beach is mostly deserted, but I’m not sure this is the best place to share our news. “Gregory…”

“Mmm…I love it when I can convince you to go against your nature.” His grin is predatory as he steps up close to me. “Kiss me, Mycroft.”

“No, thank you.”

“Oh, come on. I’m in the mood to recreate the beach scene in From Here to Eternity.”

“I have no desire to lie in wet sand, even if you are kissing me.”

“I love that you have all this popular culture knowledge. You’re going to be a hit at Quiz Night.”

“I won’t be going to any quizzes, so disabuse yourself of that notion.”

“I convinced you to marry me; I’m sure I can get you down to my local for a round of darts and a few quizzes.” He puts his arm around my waist. “I can show you off. I managed to land my own personal Cary Grant, all tall and sexy, and fancy… what a gorgeous feather in my cap you are.”

I’ll agree to do anything with him mouthing at my neck as he’s doing now. I take a step back to gain some semblance of sanity. “Gregory, we can’t do this here. And if we’re to be… ah… married, we’ve got to get back.”

He steps away, and tugs at his shorts. “Yeah, right. Being aroused in these shorts will cut off my circulation. And I want to marry you in fancy clothes. I mean, you look lush in whatever you wear, but I want to see you in a tux.”

“I could hardly trek out here in a suit, could I?”

“If anyone could, it’s you. The colour suits you. Brings out your eyes.” He kisses me lightly, and then goes back to his spot in the sand. “Do me a favour?”

“Perhaps,” I hedge, eyeing him warily.

“Take my hand, and walk with me for bit, right along the water. I’ve been dreaming about it since I got here.”

“There’s sand. And water, which will ruin these shoes. And even though there is a bit of a cloud cover, I’ll burn if I remain out here any longer.”

“Oh, like you give a toss about those shoes. And if you burn a bit, I’ll have the pleasure of slathering your gorgeous, sun-burned body with aloe.”

“It won’t be pleasant,” I say with a shudder as I remember past sunburns. “It will be painful, and I won’t want you to touch me. It would put a considerable damper on our honeymoon…”

“Okay, five minutes,” he amends, holding out his hand. “Just to the rocks and back. Please?”

“Your eyes have a way of weakening my resolve. I’ll have to work on that.” In spite of myself, I take his hand and allow myself to be tugged toward the shoreline. A sure sign of madness. I do hope my security detail isn’t recording this.

“Relax,” he says. “You’re going to break my hand.”

I realise I'm gripping his hand tightly, and loosen my hold. “Apologies.”

“No problem.” He swings our arms back and forth as we walk along the water’s edge. “Water’s not too cold. Nice.”

“We should visit Angulla,” I find myself saying. “The water there averages twenty-one degrees.”

“Sounds nice. You take holidays often?”

“No. But since you seem be a horrid influence on me, I suppose I will more often.” I step away as the tide rushes over his feet. “Now, unless you’d care to hear me pontificate about the UV index, and the effects of the sun on fair skin, I must insist that we return to the hotel in three minutes, Gregory.”

“Posh toff.”

“Fair skin isn’t something I can control.”

“No, I mean the way you say my name like it has twenty-three syllables. Makes me want to punch you. Well, less now than it did at first, but still… you couldn’t just call me Greg?”

“Perish the thought.”

“It’s my name.”

“Your name is not Greg,” I counter, and I know that I sound exactly like those ‘posh toffs’ that tormented him in school, but I refuse to bend on this issue. “I love the way Gregory rolls off the tongue. The rolling r’s, the hard g’s… it gives me immense pleasure to use your full name.”

He blinks a few times, and stares at me like I've grown an extra head.

After a few moments of continued silence, I worry that I’ve offended him. “Are you still contemplating striking me?”

“Of course not. I’m… your sexy talk about hard g’s and rolling r’s has got me as hard as the A Levels.” He shifts uncomfortably, and blows out a coffee-scented breath in my direction. “Jesus, Mycroft. You can’t seduce me out in public.”

“Seems as though all I have to do is appear, and you’re aroused. Flattering, but it could prove a hindrance in your work.”

“That alpha male, take charge, coy, cagey thing you do… walking with your head high, with your sexy voice… bloody arousing to anyone with a pulse, babe.”

“What a horrid moniker. Please refrain from ever using it again. And I fail to understand why you accepted those… swimming shorts. They will show all your… assets when they get wet. They’re quite sheer.”

“Kirby says you need lightweight clothes for surfing. I thought it was rather nice of him to compliment an old man like me.”

“Oh, quite nice.” I make a mental note to have a word with Kirby later on.

“He’s harmless, Mycroft, so whatever you’re thinking of doing, stop.”

“It was merely a thought.”

“An evil one, I’m certain.” He lets my hand go, crouches down, scrawls and M and a G in the sand with a crooked heart around it. “Fifth form lad.”

“Ah,” is all I can manage at the sight of those shorts stretching tight across his arse and thighs. There should be laws against a man who’s lived half a century being so devastatingly handsome and irresistibly sexy. “We should get back.”

“Yeah, all right.” He stands, and takes my hand again. “Does this mean our holidays will always be in some underground bunker?”

“I don’t take holidays.” I turn toward the hotel. “Come along, Gregory. We have things to do.”

“Yes,” he says with a sly grin, “we do.” Before I can parse out what that grin means, he sticks his knee behind mine, and drags me down into the sand.

“Gregory!” Dear god, I can feel the sand seeping into my trousers. “We can’t –”

He cuts off my protest with his lips over mine, his tongue in my mouth. And oh, it’s a deep, silky kiss that skips all the preliminaries and goes straight to action. His mouth is assertive, and one hand aggressively pins my right arm to the sand, while the other is cradling my head against the sand. His hips move sharply against mine, and those bloody shorts leave very little to the imagination, as I feel every inch of him as his arousal builds.

I hear myself groan, and lift a knee to better fit him between my legs. All sense of reason and propriety have flown out the window, as a wave of unbridled lust hits me. All I can think of sliding our clothes off, and taking us both in hand to bring us to orgasm.

He moans, and wrenches his mouth away from mine. He shudders, and buries his face against my neck, breathing hard and fast. “God,” he whispers, “just like that, and I’m trying to have you like a ruddy teenager on the beach. Fuck, Mycroft…”

I move my hand from his grasp, and run it along his back. “I felt it, too. And if I hadn’t already asked you to marry me, I’d do so now. No one has ever made me respond the way you do, and I am loathe to let you go, Gregory. Do you understand?”

He lifts his head and looks at me, eyes dark with desire. “We’ll make a relationship work whatever way we need to,” he says, kissing me softly. “I’ll do anything for you, if it means I get to be with you.”

“I know. And I want to do what I can to make you smile at me as you're doing now.” I jump as I feel water slosh over my legs. “Can we move this indoors? I have no desire to trudge back to my suite in wet clothing.”

“Yeah, sorry…” He blows out a breath. “Wet clothing isn’t as bad as being hard as a rock in these shorts.”

“I did warn you.”

“So you did.” He stands on shaky legs and holds out a hand. “Sorry.”

“Stop apologising.” I take his hand and pull myself up, grimacing at the sand that is all over me. “I need several showers.”

“An ice cold one for me,” he sighs. “And I’ve got that spa treatment in fifteen minutes.”

I lick my lips at the thought of him laid out on the massage table, my hands rubbing warm oil all over his golden body. I shake my head to clear it, and dust the sand off my l trousers and shirt. “I’ve got to ask Sherlock to stand with me.”

“Good luck with that,” he laughs, rubbing the sand off his thighs. He’s quiet for a moment, then he looks at me. “Are you certain?”

“That I want Sherlock to stand with me? No, but needs must.”

“No, that you want to marry me.”

“Gregory, I’ve asked, and you’ve said yes. I told you before that once I committed to it, there would be no going back. So, if you’re having second thoughts, it’s too late. We’re getting married tomorrow, if we can manage it.” I turn and walk toward the hotel.

“God, that’s some arse you’ve got there, Mycroft,” he says, coming up behind me and giving me a pinch on the bum. “Irresistible.”

“Dear lord,” I blush, thankful that the path back to the hotel is relatively deserted. “Behave yourself.”

“I love it when you’re prickly and ruffled. Adorable.”

“Never let that word come from your mouth again,” I say with a shudder.

“We’ll see.” He stops and tugs at my hand. “I, uh… just wanted to say, erm, thanks for coming to get me. It means a lot.”

“You have my father to thank. He’s a very sensible man. And I suppose it won't kill me to be married to you. My good habits may rub off on you."

"I know several things that you could rub off on me," he says with a leer. "I'll show you after my massage."

"Randy, hormone-driven sex maniac," I moan. "What have I gotten myself into?"

***

**“How adorable,” Sally gushes. “You two are perfect for each other.”**

**“I don’t know about all that,” Greg says, draining the last of orange juice. “His way of telling it makes me seem silly.”**

**“You are silly,” Mycroft says without looking up from his egg. “I practically begged you.”**

**“When you finally made up your mind, that is.” Greg smiles at him. “And now, look at us.”**

**“You could just forgive me,” Mycroft says. “It would help us both sleep better.”**

**“And we could get back to business,” Andrea mutters.**

**“If they hadn’t quarreled, it would have been months before we met, Andrea,” Sally says with a smile. “So, it’s all good, right?”**

**“Right,” Andrea says grudgingly.**

**“She abhors schedule changes.” Mycroft shakes his head. “It’s why I hired her.”**

**“And my ability to multi-task.”**

**“What did Sherlock say?” Sally asks. “I’m sure he was difficult.”**

**“That barely describes what it was like to ask Sherlock to witness my union,” Mycroft says with a shake of his head. “Hellish might be more apt. In fact, he was insanely agreeable…”**

**TBC**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg's shorts are found at H&M. Mycroft's clothes are actually on the Ralph Lauren website. Mycroft's secret lair is the Hamilton Penthouse at the Corinthia. Because why not. 
> 
> This chapter's title is a song by Al Green, who I'm sure you know by now, is my favorite singer. "Loving you whether times are good or bad, happy or sad..."


	5. Interlude: We Are Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter!  
> Mycroft asks Sherlock to be his best man. And tells his parents he's getting married. The Holmeses are a strange lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This bit isn't framed by the present. It's Mycroft's POV, and yes, he's doing it without Greg. It just works better that way.
> 
> Word of warning: There's Latin here, with the translations at the end of the story. I used a website where scholars who have studied Latin share phrases that they love. I chose the ones that suited me and that suited this story. If you don't like it or if you think it should be different, skip this bit.
> 
> As ever, I am grateful for all those who read and bookmark and give kudos. Thank you all so much!

“Good morning, dear brother.”

“What in god’s name are you wearing?” Sherlock slides into the chair opposite me. “You look like a cartoon villain, having your tea out on the terrace in a dressing gown. Plotting world domination?”

“I am not plotting anything other than speaking with you. And I am wearing trousers, and a shirt underneath the dressing gown,” I reply with a smile. “It’s a habit I fear I can’t break.”

“Always were a dandy,” he says with a shake of his head. “You’ve got sunburn as well.”

“Brilliant observation.” I don’t want to antagonise him too much, because I need him, but old habits die hard.

“Even with the relative cloud cover, you only have six minutes before you compound the sunburn you’ve got. Why risk it?”

“Why, indeed,” I say with my best enigmatic smile.

“And you’ve been in the sand. Slightly wet sand. On your back.” He grimaces. “Snogging. How nauseating.”

“Only because you’ve never experienced it. Would you like to provide the minutiae? Perhaps expound on the slight beard burn on my neck, or that my bottom lip is slightly swollen…?”

“Please stop. I have no desire to delve into the salacious details.”

“It was so deliciously decadent, I can hardly contain myself.” I look at him over the rim of my teacup. “Oh, dear me… I must tell someone about the liberties he took!”

“You can cease being facetious, Mycroft. And as I saying, I was busy.” His tone is perfectly petulant. “You didn’t call me here to regale me with details of your love life, or whatever you’re calling it. What do you want?”

“You can get back to your petty case in a few moments, Sherlock.” I take a sip of tea, and set the cup aside. “How rude of me. Would you like tea? It’s the chocolate chai of Mummy’s that you’re fond of.”

“Mycroft.” He’s gone from petulant to exasperated.

String him along too much, and he’ll leave. I clear my throat. “I am in need of your assistance. Won’t you have a tart? It’s custard.” I add, knowing he could never resist a tart of any kind.

With a suspicious eye, he sighs and takes one of the tiny pastries from the tiered tray. “I’ve already provided assistance by bringing your annoyingly love-sick toy to you. That should be enough to stop you nagging me for the better part of the next year.”

“We wouldn’t survive the separation. And please, do not let the Detective Inspector hear you refer to him as a toy.”

“He should know so that he keeps his aspirations low.”

I roll my eyes at that. “At any rate, I know that your first response will be either negative or mocking, but I would not ask if I did not need you to stand with me when I marry Gregory.”

He frowns at me. “Who’s that?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” I say with a rueful head shake.

He’s quiet for a long moment, blinking rapidly, whilst looking at me as if I’ve grown another head.

“Sherlock, you look like an owl. Say something. ”

“My god,” he says finally. “Have you gone mad?”

“Most certainly. And my living will stipulates that you are not to run experiments on me in my vegetative state.”

“I’ll try to restrain myself.”

‘Thank you.” I watch him for a few moments. “You have questions.”

“Of course I have questions. The first is regarding your sanity. The second… how did we go from all humanity are goldfish to marrying the biggest goldfish in the bowl?”

“Why not?”

“I’m not nine, Mycroft,” he huffs. “You can’t avoid answering my question by questioning me.”

“If I choose to, I can do just that.”

“You could, but it seems that you need me.” He sits back, arms folded across his chest.

I sigh, because I have no doubt that I would win a battle of silence, but I do need him. “Fine. I am not insane, Sherlock. I am going to marry Lestrade because I am… well, I’ve realised that I’ve grown fond of him.”

He snorts at that. “I’m fond of John, but am not marrying him.”

“John is adamant that he is not gay, and you are still happily married to your work, so I can see how he would refuse your proposal, should you do so.”

“Yes, well. I was under the impression that you didn’t do this. You know, sex. Lestrade does. With rather alarming frequency. What’s going to happen when he finds out you’re… well, I know you don’t like the name, but you can be rather cold. Icy, some say.”

“I am no more ‘the iceman’ than you are a sociopath, dear brother.”

“But, you don’t do sex, do you? Today’s snogging aside, that is.”

“Your knowledge is based on what I choose to show you. I showed you the events of the morning so that you’d be prepared for what I’m asking of you.”

“Blah, blah, smarter brother, blah, blah,” he mocks. “Let’s change the subject.”

“This is the subject. Lestrade wishes to be with me. I’ve tried to deter him, but he won’t be moved.”

“As painful as I am finding this, it’s like a train wreck that I can’t look away from. He’s said you’ve let him kiss you?”

“You don’t let people kiss you, Sherlock. You do it together.”

“Tongues touching does not sound appealing at all. Not to mention all of the bacteria that is found in the human mouth. I’d rather not.”

“I thought the same. But it is rather pleasurable if one doesn’t put too much thought into the physiology of it.”

“Why him? Thomas was a willing victim, with money, and marketable skills. Lestrade has next to nothing to offer.”

“Have you ever stopped and actually looked at Lestrade, Sherlock? He’s utterly gorgeous for a man of his years. He’s fit, and that arse of his… sonnets should be written about it, it’s such a thing of beauty. I could do worse.”

“Sonnets to an arse? You have gone mad.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“He’s… all right, I suppose. That is, if your tastes run to wearying, over-sexed, dull policemen who couldn’t solve a case if the murderer called in his confession. Are you marrying for the physical aspect?”

“Perish the thought. I am actually fond of him. Yes, it happened rather quickly, but it isn’t the worst thing in the world. Perhaps I always fancied him, but I don’t want to examine the reasons too closely, lest I think myself out of it. Also, he’s a good man, and it seems that those qualities, coupled with his attractiveness are like catnip to me.”

“Heaven help us all, if this is you caring,” he groans, eating another tart. “You’re already behaving out of character, snogging on the beach like a teenager.”

“You’re very focused on the sex, Sherlock,” I tease. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

“No,” he says quickly. A bit too quickly, I think, but I don’t dare call him on it. “I’m in shock. I told Lestrade that he couldn’t marry God, and that you were toying with him to get him to do your bidding. I hate being wrong.”

“ _Amare et sapere vix deo conceitur_.”(1)

“What a megalomaniac you are. Is Lestrade aware of the scope of your influence? What will you do when your work collides with his?”

“He is not nearly as dim-witted as you believe. For one, he does not believe that I merely occupy a minor position in the government. And I’m certain that being married here at this expensive venue will do nothing to dissuade him of the notion. Should our work collide, I will deal with it in the customary fashion.”

“Doesn’t that typically include some form of torture or public shaming?”

“Well, I wouldn’t do that to my own husband, so I’ll just have to see to it that our worlds don’t collide. And even you don’t know the true scope of my influence, Sherlock.”

He laughs. “So you think.”

“So I know,” I counter. “You’ll stand with me, then? If not, I’ll have to ask father, and I’m certain he’ll want to do something whimsical, like wear a plaid bow-tie, or a velvet waistcoat in red. Or sing, heaven forbid. Please.”

He looks at me. “Are you certain this is what you want, Mycroft? You could just have sex with him, if that’s your reasoning.”

“Oh, Sherlock… believe it or not, there are those – other than Thomas and the cellist – who find me attractive and would love to have sex with me. In fact, before coming here, there was an offer from a rather prominent district attorney in Manhattan.”

He laughs. “Was he blind?”

“I was under the impression that you coming here and sitting across from me was a sign of a truce,” I say coolly.

“Sorry,” he says, clearly not sorry at all. “Go on.”

“I won’t say I wasn’t tempted to take what was on offer; however, I thought of what Gregory was offering, and decided that I would prefer permanence over a series of one night stands. Very risky, security wise.”

“You were supposed to contact him and let him know what you’d decided. Did you change your mind?”

“It seemed that way,” I say with a shrug, “but I had planned to return to London, and marry him there. Eventually.”

“Cruel. He was devastated at the thought of losing you. Sitting in that hell hole of a flat, drinking your brand of scotch, wearing smelly clothing… He gave in too easily. I would make you suffer.”

“Yes, well… I’ve apologised, and he’s accepted my proposal.” I sip at my tea. “I’ve given him Grandfather’s watch. I do hope you don’t mind?”

“Why would I mind? You know he didn’t like me much.”

“He didn’t dislike you, Sherlock. You were a nuisance, and he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to deal with you.”

“You say.” Our Grandfather’s perpetual sharpness with Sherlock’s temperament is a sore point that we’ll never see eye to eye on. “So, your marriage will be secret?”

“To a certain extent,” I say. “I’ll have the record sealed, but there are those who will have to know for security reasons.”

“Good luck explaining that to him.” He pops another tart in his mouth, and nearly swallows it whole. “This means Lestrade will be my brother-in-law,” he says sourly. “You will see to it that it doesn’t cause problems for our working together, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“I won’t be ‘nicer’, if that’s what you’re expecting.”

“Never. But I do expect you watch out for him.”

“He can take care of himself, Mycroft. And since you’re already watching him, you can up his surveillance level a few notches.”

“Not the point. He is family, Sherlock. You know the motto: _Dum inter homines sumus, colamus humanitatem._ (2)

“You must be smitten. You only use Latin when you’re experiencing feelings.”

“I’m human after all, it seems. Are you disappointed?”

“That you’ve finally done something for yourself? Not at all. Just don’t… be careful with him, Mycroft. You have a tendency to be careless with your things.”

“The Detective Inspector is not a thing, Sherlock.”

“Of course not, but your marriage is going to be rocky if you’re going to refer to him by his title. He says his name is Greg, though it doesn’t ring right to me.”

“You think he doesn’t know his own name? How absurd.”

“Yes, well… Lestrade is absurd, but he is vital to my work. I’ll be the one to suffer if this madness between you two doesn’t work. See to it that it works, Mycroft. You know… _accesnsa domo proximi, tuo quoque periclitatur_.(3) Since we’re using Latin today.”

“I have no plans to hurt him, or your work, Sherlock. I do care for him, or I wouldn’t marry him.”

“I have no earthly idea what he sees in you, but congratulations, brother. And good luck in your attempt to be normal.”

“Thank you, Sherlock. I have no idea what he sees in me, either, but _nil volentibus arduum.”_ (4) I stand and pull out a cigarette and lighter. “In celebration.”

“Wonderful.” He gets up and joins me at the low wall of the terrace, a smug smile on his face. Like me, he only smokes when he’s extremely distressed, depressed, or when there’s a thrill in doing so. Or if he feels like it. He takes the cigarette and sticks it in his mouth. “This isn’t your brand.”

“No,” I laugh. “It’s poison. You’ll love it.” I light the cigarette and watch as he takes a drag.

“Oh, that’s brilliant,” he coughs out. “Menthol. Lestrade’s brand.” He exhales a stream of smoke over the terrace. “Horrid.”

I hold up a hand as he attempts to hand the cigarette back to me. “All yours. It makes me nauseated.”

“Lightweight.”

“So I’ve been told. Andrea will see to your tuxedo, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, it’s formal wear? Even at the beach, Mycroft? You are most definitely a throwback to another time. Ever the dandy.”

“Just because you’d get married in your dressing gown and pyjama bottoms…”

He laughs. “If I ever married, yes, I would. Right in the sitting room at Baker Street. Then I’d go back to whatever I was working on.” He looks at me with a frown. “You’re going to honeymoon?”

“I have business in Canada. I’ll bring him along. When we return home and I have the time, I’ll show him the various properties I own.”

“Careful, brother… caring isn’t an advantage. Or so you’ve said.”

“It isn’t,” I say firmly. “But I’ve been told that I may have misinterpreted Grandfather’s intent. It isn’t so bad, really, but it will take some getting used to.”

“This is dreadful,” he says, tossing the cigarette to the sand below. “And tedious. I’m going to dart in and out of traffic along the coast. Would you like to join me instead of telling our parents you’re getting married?”

“It is shouldn’t be that bad, Sherlock. Mummy won’t…” I think of how this will go over with my mother and give him my best smile. “You wouldn’t like to provide back-up, would you? I will reward you handsomely.”

“She’s going to cry and make a fuss, and then turn that laser-like gaze on me, and go on and on about me finding ‘that special someone’.” He heads for the door. “I’d rather stick pins in my eyes.” 

“I anticipated that would be your answer."

He opens the suite door and gives me a cheeky grin. "Mummy will be so pleased, she won't stop talking until you say your vows."

"Bugger off, Sherlock. Oh, and the fellow with the purple motorbike stole the jewels."

"Bastard," he mutters, and closes the door firmly behind him.

***

“Oh, this is wonderful! Isn’t it wonderful, Ed?” My mother dabs at her eyes with her handkerchief. “I never imagined one of my boys would get married. Did you, Ed? And Mycroft of all people! To Greg, who is such a dear, dear man. I knew when I met him that he would be the one to capture our Mikey’s heart. Have you planned the ceremony yet, Mikey?”

“It’s Mycroft, Mother. And I was hoping to keep it –“

“The weather is so gorgeous, you’ll want to be out on the beach, dear,” she goes on, and then looks at me with a frown. “Well, perhaps not, with your fair skin. I think I’ve read that they’ll hold a ceremony out on the terrace of the restaurant, with a tent overhead and fancy table settings. What colours are you thinking?”

“Mummy, we haven’t –”

“I think dark blue and silver,” she says, clapping her hands like a child. “Maybe light aubergine, since Greg looked so gorgeous last night. But you would both look smashing in dark blue tuxes with white shirts. Oh, Mikey… this is just…” Her voice catches, and tears form in her eyes again. “I’ve got so much to do. Have you told Andy? She’s such a gem, and I know she can help me find cake pops even though it’s short notice. Where is my mobile, Ed?”

“It was in your handbag,” Father says, with an embarrassed smile directed at me. “Where have you put your handbag?”

This is hellishly tedious. If given enough leeway, my mother will plan the entire wedding while I stand here. “Mother,” I say firmly. “I need you to listen to me.”

“Have you asked Sherlock to stand with you?” she continues, oblivious to anything other than her own thoughts. “I know he can be difficult, but you’ve only got one brother, and if you haven’t asked him, please do, Mikey. He loves you so much – I know he doesn’t show it often, but I know he does. I wish he’d find someone and settle down. Maybe that Molly from Bart’s? Or is he… that John seems like a nice enough fellow, but I’m not sure if he’s into chaps… is Sherlock into chaps? I mean, silly me, all ready to introduce you to Helene’s niece, and you fancied blokes. How embarrassing.”

“You’ve said this already, Mother,” I sigh. “If you could just stop for a moment, I’ll –“

“Greg isn’t allergic to shellfish, is he? We had the most wonderful prawns for lunch,” she goes on. “I think that would be a nice starter for the reception. How many guests are you having? Is there going to be someone to stand up for Greg? Father will do it if he needs someone… oh, dear… I never even stopped to think about his family. Does he have family?”

“Yes, Mummy, but…”

“It’s probably too short of a notice to get them here, so we’ll have to have a grand do back home so that we can meet. That would be smashing, wouldn’t it?”

“If we can find the time, I’m sure we’ll –”

“Oh, and you’ll need a minister! I have a friend – Kaye is her name – very nice woman, whom I met in Kansas whilst your father and I were doing competitive dancing. She was very good at the lindy hop, but she broke her ankle and had to retire. Shame, that, because you haven’t seen a hop until you’ve seen Kaye do it. Well, she’s living here in ah, Sherman Oaks, I believe, and she is very fond of performing marriage ceremonies for the same sex couples. Would you like me to call her? I’m sure she’d love to help out. Ed, have you found my mobile?”

“Still looking,” Father calls out from the terrace, where he is seated, reading the paper. “Just as soon as I find your handbag, love.”

“He’s such a dear, your father is,” she laughs, “but he couldn’t find a tree in the forest. I love him, though. We didn’t have a big wedding, you know. Just ran off to London and did the deed. We both just wore something smart, and spent the night in a bed and breakfast, since your grandfather was being an arse at the time, and –”

“Mother,” I say firmly. “If you could just stop and listen for a moment…?”

She looks up at me with a frown. “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

I chuckle and shake my head. “No, Mummy… just that Andrea will help you find a suitable dress this evening, if that’s acceptable?”

“Oh, of course it is! Andy’s got such lovely taste, and I’m sure whatever she finds for me will be just lovely. I wish she’d settle down with a nice young man… but you keep her so busy. For a time, I was certain that she fancied you…”

And that’s enough for me. “I’ll see you later. We’ll have dinner, if you wish.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Father says. “Good on you, working it out son. Glad you didn’t let him get away.”

“Thank you for your assistance,” I say with a nod. “You are very observant when you choose to be. Andrea will call you when it’s time for your fitting.”

“… maybe something in a light blue for me…” Nothing stops Mummy when she’s on a roll.

“Enjoy your afternoon.” I ease my way to the door, and slip out before my mother notices.

I sigh and lean against the door, wondering for the tenth time since I proposed just what in the hell I’ve gotten myself into.

 

TBC…

 

 

The Latin:

  1. Even a god finds it hard to love and be wise at the same time
  2. As long as we are among humans, let us be humane.
  3. When the house of your neighbor is in flames, your own is in danger
  4. Nothing is arduous for the willing



 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's love of custard tarts is seen in A Scandal in Belgravia. He opens Mrs. Hudson's fridge, and starts shoving tarts into his mouth. Well, it's one tart, but still... poetic license.


	6. Show and Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is curious, Mycroft is cagey (as usual), desires and tempers flare. And in the present, they're still trying to straighten it out. Such is the nature of their relationship. This is just fluff with a teeny side of uncertainty, and men who are still figuring each other out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's late again because I'm old and have shitty hands. And I live in an angst cloud, and had to re-write several parts because they were too dark for this tale. (lol, drowning in the ocean!) And also, I have no intention on abandoning this story, or any other story I'm writing, in case someone was wondering. 
> 
> The inspiration for this chapter (and the title) is the song Show and Tell by Al Wilson. "Show and tell, just a game I play when I wanna say I love you... so show me and tell me that you feel the same way, too..."
> 
> There are shifting POVs here because Greg had to tell his side of it. Yeah, I know. 
> 
> For Mystrade lovers - I appreciate all your kudos and comments and encouragement. Thank you so much for all the love you all have given to this series.

**“…and stay out of trouble…” Greg closes the door, and places Andrea’s tablet on the table. He flops down on the sofa next to Mycroft. “I’m sorry.”**

**Mycroft looks up from his mobile with a frown. “For insisting that Andrea leave her tablet behind while she and Sally have a date? I’m certain I’ll survive for a few hours.”**

**“Not that,” Greg says quietly.**

**“No?” Setting his mobile aside, Mycroft turns to look at him with a frown. “What is it?”**

**“I just…” Greg shrugs and ducks his head. “Well, hearing you tell the story… I, ah… well, I said I’d take you as you were, and I didn’t. I shouldn’t expect you to be something you’re not. So, I’m** **apologising for being angry with you for not introducing me as your husband. Part of the reason you were hesitant to marry me was that I would try to change you, or be dissatisfied at your ability to be ‘normal’. I failed at that, and I’m sorry.”**

**“You haven’t failed. And it wasn’t as though I did not anticipate the inevitability of you being discontented with the status quo. I married you in spite of that.”**

**“So you did,” Greg says through a huge yawn. “Sorry, it’s been a long few days. I'm knackered.”**

**“You look as though you’re about to keel over. Why don’t you have a shower and lie down for a bit?”**

**“Paperwork to be done. Your meetings finished?”**

**“Thankfully, the tedious portion is done. The committee will reconvene here in a few hours. Which reminds me that I have a favour to ask of you.”**

**Looking at him with trepidation, Greg nods. “Ask away.”**

**“I need your team to make an arrest for me. It’s all in place; you’re needed to make it legitimate, so to speak. All above board. And after the arrest, I need you to take charge of the press conference.”**

**“I look like shit, Mycroft,” Greg whinges.**

**“Oh, bosh. You manage to look like a film star any time you appear on camera.”**

**“Flatterer. Will I end up on some evil dictator’s hit list if I do this?”**

**“Perhaps, but only a minor one, with no real evil intentions.” Mycroft gives him a tight smile. “I’ll be in your debt.”**

**“You’re still in my debt from that Valentine’s Day.”**

**“I married you.”**

**“I married _you_ ,” Greg laughs. “Can I collect beforehand?”**

**“I indulge your fetishes. Especially that Chelsea bun fixation you have.”**

**“You do. But collecting beforehand is the Lestrade way.”**

**“The Lestrade way seems to vary, depending on the circumstance.”**

**“True.” Greg smiles, then sobers. “So, if I’m being honest, I need you. You said all I had to do was ask. So, I’m asking.”**

**“Need me how? I have a meeting in a few hours and – ”**

**“I’m asking, Mycroft.” Greg puts a hand on Mycroft’s arm, and rubs lightly, gently. “As much as you’ve been alone, I have as well. You can sit on the side of the bed and hold my hand if that’s what you fancy, but just…”**

**“Gregory, stop.” Mycroft rubs his thumb across Greg’s lips. “Nothing would please me more than to lie down with you and ‘just be’, to coin a phrase. Times like this – you being pliant and keen on being with me – always seems to weaken my resolve. I seem to recall you being in a similar frame of mind on the day before we married…”**

*******

“…yes, ma’am… I thought it prudent that I should share my happy news with you first, because you are such an important figure in my life, and so that the news would not catch you unawares. Yes, ma’am, it is a recent development… it’s early days, yet, ma’am… oh, erm, well… he’s… very attractive, ma’am… no, ma’am, Harry and I are simply old friends… never, ma’am… yes, I will… Gregory Lestrade, ma’am… Scotland Yard, Detective Inspector…, oh, very stalwart, loyal, and rather patient with Sherlock, ma’am… I shall… of course, your Majesty… thank you…” I shake my head as she rings off, wondering just how my life has come to having the Queen hold forth about my upcoming nuptials.

It’s not yet noon, and I'm ready to go and sit in a dark room in total silence. However… I move over to the door and open it before Andrea can knock.

“Is there an issue, sir?” she asks, her eyes scanning my face for a sign of why I’ve called her to my suite. “Did Lestrade agree?”

“I have never understood the reasoning behind asking a question to which you already know the answer.”

“You are a Holmes, and cannot resist the denouement. I’m expected to ask, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” I admit reluctantly. “And so…there is an existing reservation for the terrace area tomorrow evening. A workplace function, if memory serves. If it won’t cause great upheaval, have it moved. Perhaps to the pier or the steak establishment down the road, or any other venue of their choosing. With the usual reasons, a case of moderately priced wine, and a tray of starters or whatever you deem acceptable.”

“Of course,” she nods, stylus flying across the tablet screen. “And congratulations, sir. You must be chuffed that he’s said yes.”

“Oh, yes, quite chuffed,” I say in my most droll tone. “Just do what I’ve asked, and please stop smiling. I’ve just had Her Majesty’s rather cheerful congratulations, and don’t need more.”

“I’m sure she was delighted, since she’s been trying to pair you up for years… well, after she took a whiff of smelling salts at the news,” she chuckles.

“Andrea, calm yourself. Can the function be moved?”

She consults her tablet, but has not stopped smiling. “Yes, of course. But wouldn’t you like to make use of the beach? They can set up a tent with lanterns, and it’s really quite lovely with the sound of the waves, and the moonlight. I think it would be –”

“Sand.”

“It’s a beach, so yes.”

“I find it rather troublesome, much like ants.” Damn Gregory and his early morning sand snog. I feel like there’s still sand in my pants, even though I’ve showered thoroughly. “Security level four for the terrace from half-four to seven will suffice. And for the record, your smile is unsettling.”

“You’re getting married, sir! With the lovely California coast line as a backdrop. Very romantic, and a perfect reason to smile.”

“I’ll need Dr. Ramsay on hand once I return to London to ensure that I am in full possession of my facilities.”

Her eyebrow lifts. “Will you see him in his Harley Street office, or shall I fetch him?”

“You’re taking advantage of my fugue state to tease me,” I observe. “If I didn’t need you for the task ahead, I’d start interviews for a new assistant.”

“At the risk of sounding impertinent, I don’t think there is anyone who can replace me.” Her tone is smug, but she does dip her head respectfully. “That aside, how can I assist you in getting prepared?”

“Would you be so kind as to procure a tuxedo for the Detective Inspector?”

She barely refrains from smiling again. “Of course. I have immediate access to Zegna, Dior, and Armani. Anything else will take more time than we have. Does he have a preference?”

I laugh at that. “His idea of a tuxedo involves a rental shop, so let’s take care of this ourselves. I’m thinking the Zegna in midnight blue, because the cut and colour will be exquisite on him. However, Armani or Dior will do in a pinch.”

“I have it on good authority that Mr. Pilati is in his Beverly Hills residence for the next few days. I’m certain he’d love to provide whatever we require. And for you, sir?”

‘On good authority’ means she’s in contact with him now. “I’m still put out by the fiasco with the trousers I wore on Valentine’s Day. Slim fit. There is nothing about me that is slim.”

“Lestrade was most certainly appreciative of the cut of your trousers,” she observes with a shrug. “Couldn’t keep his eyes… or hands… off you. Teeth, either, if memory serves.”

I blush at the memory, but wisely choose not to engage in a conversation about what may have transpired with Gregory on Valentine’s Day, and the bite mark on my shoulder. “Fine. If Stefano will promise to stick to a classic cut, I will allow him to provide my tuxedo as well. As it stands, I will have to put in an order for shirts with Poole, just in case he gets wind that I’m being unfaithful.”

She looks at her tablet with a grin. “Mr. Pilati says he is at your service, and will send his staff over at four today for fittings. Are we including Sherlock?”

“Sherlock won’t wear anything other than Armani, and I’m certain that he brought his along,” I sigh. “He has been advised that you will assist him, if need be.”

“How did he take the news?”

“In typical Sherlock fashion. But he agreed to stand with me, and hopefully, not embarrass me.”

“Hopefully,” she says with a shake of her head. “And your parents?”

“My father has a tuxedo, and I’m certain my mother has something fancy in her travelling bag to wear. And speaking of my mother…”

“Has she gone off the rails so soon?”

“She has taken the liberty of putting herself in charge of it all.”

“I was wondering what her text referred to. She’s meeting with the wedding coordinators in an hour, and would like me there. Am I to provide assistance, or just be sure that she doesn’t go too far overboard in the planning?”

I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Unfortunately, that did nothing to alleviate the throbbing behind my left eye. “Whatever she wishes, Andrea. However, I draw the line at any sort of string quartets or poetry readings.”

“Of course, sir. How many guests?”

“Let’s say fifteen to err on the side of caution. Of course I’ll need Justine and Richard from the Embassy to ensure the legality of being married here. Invite the Shiley’s and whomever else you deem necessary. I worry that Gregory will feel that he is alone, so let’s fetch his brother, Grant, to stand with him.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” she gushes, ignoring my glaring at her. “Where is he?”

“At last check, he was off the coast of Alaska, serving aboard the Iron Duke.”

To my surprise, she shakes her head. “Sir… I can’t just… there is protocol to be followed.”

“I wanted to surprise Gregory by bringing his brother here. As a… gesture… of some sort. Romantic, some would say.”

“Oh, it is most definitely romantic, and Lestrade will adore you for it. However, sir, you can’t just take a member of the Royal Navy and…” she trails off at my raised eyebrows. “Well, **_you_** most certainly can, but I wouldn’t advise forgoing the channels that are specifically available to you.”

“It’s easier to just fetch him,” I sigh. The tedium of following rules and protocol can be rather chafing. “Fine. I’ll make the call; you set up the transport.” I retrieve my mobile and press a few buttons. “Good afternoon. Zero-nine-zero-two. Yes… Lestrade, Lieutenant Colonel, Special Boat Services, Iron Duke. Retrieval for classified matter in the United States. Authorisation is fourteen-tango-whiskey. Yes, to me personally. Understood. Instructions to follow.” I ring off and look at her. “They’ll have him here by late evening. Be sure he brings his dress uniform, so you won’t have to worry about him in that sense.”

“There are times when your… authority… surprises me.”

“Good.” My mobile chimes, and I frown at the text from my mother. “A minister will be on hand in the morning. She insists on talking to us both prior to signing the license. For god’s sake…”

“A minister?” Andrea stares at me as though I’ve grown another head. “You don’t, ah…”

“My mother insists. And having a minister present will allay the Detective Inspector’s fear of both the wrath of God, and the legality of being married in a foreign country.”

“I do hope you don’t intend to refer to him as the Detective Inspector throughout your marriage? It’s all right to call him Greg.”

“Never, though I take your point. I am well out of my milieu,” I sigh for what seems like the thousandth time since waking. “Tedious. Let’s move on from this.”

There’s a series of light taps on the door, and Andrea looks at me with her brows raised. Mostly because someone coming to my suite without her knowledge is abnormal, but also because of the odd tapping. “Are you expecting someone? Is all well?” She moves to stand, but I stay her with a hand.

“Andrea… you’ve been in my employ for too long and have become paranoid.” I open the door and shake my head at Gregory’s broad smile. All this joy is making my headache worse. “You are the worst undercover agent ever. You tapped out the wrong code.”

“Did I? Ah, well…“ He saunters in the room, slightly tanned and delightfully sexy in a white button down and dark denims, suitcase in hand. “Afternoon, Andrea.” He sets his suitcase near the closet by the door. “Sherlock say yes?”

“Yes,” I say, eyeing his suitcase. “What is this?”

“A suitcase,” he says cautiously. “Didn’t think you’d mind me kipping here with you in the ultra-posh digs, seeing that we’re to be married tomorrow. And I’ve had enough of Sherlock to last a lifetime.” He frowns at me, and moves toward the case. “It’s not a problem, is it? I can –”

“Of course not,” I cut in before he can finish his ridiculous sentence. “My suite is your suite.”

Andrea smiles down at her tablet, but doesn’t comment.

“Ta.” He looks around with a smile. “Very nice suite.”

I am so distracted by his tanned skin, peeking out above the collar of the vest he’s wearing under his shirt, that I barely hear what he’s said. “Yes, it’s rather nicely appointed.” I clear my throat. “You look, ah, rested. Did the massage help your leg?”

“If rested means gorgeous, thank you,” he teases, and seats himself in the chair near the window. The sunlight is shining just so on his hair, and I swallow hard. Christ. “And yes, that spa session was excellent. Hot stones, seaweed wrap, and a beer tasting. Didn’t think I’d enjoy something so fancy, but there it is. You should have a go, Andrea.”

“I’ll try to fit it in,” she says with an eye roll. “Do you have any food allergies? Mrs. Holmes is putting the menu together, and you didn’t answer her text.”

“She sent it two minutes ago,” he defends. “I didn’t even know what she was on about. For the record, I don’t like pearl onions, mushy peas, caviar, anchovies, pretzels with peanut butter in them, or tuna mayo. But I do love a Chelsea bun, and a good cuppa.” He throws a cheeky wink my way. “I’m not fussed, really.”

“Not liking mushy peas may be treason in the Holmes family.” She stands, and gathers her attaché, and tablet. “If there’s nothing else, sir?”

“I think you’ve got enough for now. If you would be so kind as to put together some type of schedule with my mother, you will be handsomely rewarded.”

“Maldives,” she says.

“Hm,” is all I can say to that.

Gregory looks at me, brow furrowed. “Who’s paying for all this?”

“We are,” I say as brightly as I can. “The Holmes-Lestrade Consortium, if you will. You haven’t brought along your chequebook, have you?”

“Mycroft.”

“Gregory.”

“Simple, you said.” He stands and moves over to Andrea, trying to get a look at her notes. “Simple, yeah?”

“One can only hope, but knowing Mrs. Holmes, I highly doubt it,” Andrea says, turning off her tablet. “I’ll be back in a few hours for your fittings. Enjoy your afternoon.” She nods, and leaves us.

Once the door is closed, I can see he’s about to explode, so I head him off. “My mother has taken over. Nothing will ever be simple again, Gregory. It would behoove us to go along with her.”

“I understand how mothers can get carried away. I’m talking about the rest. ’Fittings’ sounds bloody expensive.” His arms fold across his chest – a sure sign that he is not pleased. “Mycroft.”

I lift an eyebrow. “If you happen to have a tuxedo stuffed into your haphazardly packed suitcase, I will cancel your fitting.”

“Well… you lot can’t just plan a wedding without talking to me. And maybe I don’t want to wear a tuxedo.”

“You do,” I refute, giving him a long, slow head to toe look. “I want to see you in a tuxedo. If only for the sheer pleasure of getting you out of it after all is said and done.”

“Stop trying to distract me,” he grumbles.

“Well, then, what role did you take in your other two weddings? You can do that, if it pleases you.”

He ducks his head, and a spot of colour creeps up his neck. “Ah, well… Never had a wedding. Just put on something smart, and went to the register’s office.”

“Dear lord,” I shudder. “So you’ll trust me to handle this one?”

“The tuxedo –“

I hold up a hand. “Bow to Andrea’s expertise in such matters, please. Having a fashionista in-house is a boon for us.”

“Yeah, well, I’m certain that getting married here has got to be –“

“Gregory. It is rather gauche to discuss money matters.”

“Ha. People with money always say that. Poor blokes like me talk about money, or the lack of it, all the time.” He looks at his watch. “And speaking of which, a bloke offered to buy this watch off me for a good bit of coin. You didn’t tell me I’d need a bodyguard to wear it out in the public.”

“I told you it was an antique.”

“So, that was a euphemism for expensive?” he huffs. “Next time, use plain English. I’m just a poor copper. I don’t know anything about fancy watches and such.”

“You’re not just an anything. You’re quite brilliant when it’s called for.”

“Nothing quite like a Holmes compliment,” he says with a shake of his head. “So… you must be bloody well-off, then.”

I look at him with a frown. His expression hasn’t changed, but there’s something in his tone that gives me pause. This is the trouble in marrying in haste – I fear there will be much repenting in leisure. I keep my tone light as I say, “We won’t starve, if that’s your worry.”

“I’m not worried,” he says quickly. “Just… well, if I’m being honest, that my pay is your pocket money may be a bit concerning.”

“You are well-paid, so hush. What’s mine shall be yours, with the exception of a few minor holdings that are in the family trust.”

“The family trust?” He groans, and shakes his head. “Bloody hell, I feel like I’m marrying the prince.”

“Hardly,” I say with a tiny snort. “I made some rather wise financial decisions in my youth, guided by my grandfather, who excelled in the art of finance.”

“What sort of interests did you invest in?”

“All sorts,” I hedge. “There are so many ways that one can make money – real estate, stocks, bonds, investing… rest assured, Gregory, our marriage will be one of equal sacrifice, not equal giving. All told, a Scotland Yard detective inspector is marrying a minor government official.”

“Minor, my arse, but let’s not get into that right now. All right to open these doors?” Without waiting for a reply, he pushes the French doors open, and breathes in deeply. “Sea air is so refreshing. And the view… god, that’s just so blue. Reminds me of your eyes.”

“If you would focus for a bit, we can take care of the matter at hand, and then you can go back to waxing poetic over the view.”

“Yeah, all right.”

“You’re very calm for man who is marrying another man in a little over twenty-four hours, Gregory.”

“I’m more worried about you,” he says. “I’m aces at this. Are you going to be all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Just asking.” He breathes in deeply, and exhales. “What else is there that you’re not telling me?”

“Nothing. I just want to get the business portion out of the way so that we can both relax. If you have any questions, now is the time.”

“I have a million questions, but you standing there, with the sunlight hitting your hair has short-circuited my brain.”

“Such flattery.”

“Never. All right then, here’s a question for you. Have you eaten or slept in the past twenty-four hours?”

“I had breakfast prior to proposing to you. And there was tea earlier when I was talking with Sherlock.”

“Tea as in a meal or tea as in a cup of hot liquid, and maybe a few biscuits?”

“The latter. And I closed my eyes for about fifteen minutes or so.”

“Or so?” he repeats. “You’re a Holmes – you know down to the second. So, that means you haven’t really slept.”

“That’s one interpretation,” I hedge.

“It’s the correct interpretation, I reckon. And I can see the headache in your eyes. So, then, let’s do something different than standing around asking questions.”

“What is it?” I look at him, trying to deduce what he could possibly… oh, no… “No. Ah, that is to say, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I think it is.”

“Greg,” I say, and I hate the way it tastes in my mouth, but I hope it derails him.

“Really?” He gives me a hard look. “You nearly died saying that, didn’t you?”

“It was most certainly unpleasant.”

“We can have a duvet afternoon. We can still take care of business, you know, talk about our expectations, and get to know one another. We’ll just do it lying down.”

“I don’t feel the need to lie down. I already know you, and therefore, have no expectations.”                                                                                         

“You say that now, but I’m sure you have something you’ll expect, like not hogging the bathroom, or using your towel. And you don’t know everything about me, unless you’ve installed cameras in my bedroom and shower. Have you?”

“There are at least three bathrooms, so that won’t be an issue. And no, there are no cameras in your flat,” I say firmly. “I do have some boundaries.”

“Not many, I’m certain. But ta for that. And I know nothing about you, other than that you’re bloody rich, and you love your family.”

“Astute.”

“Detective Inspector,” he laughs. “So… do you have work that needs doing right now?”

“Always.”

“Anything that can’t be aside for a bit?” He steps in close, so close I can see minute traces of sugar scrub on his chin. He takes my hands and squeezes them. “Just want your undivided attention for an hour or so. We can just lie in bed, and just… be. Nothing you’d be uncomfortable with, to coin a phrase.”

“Gregory…”

“Please.” He drops my hands and places his arms around my waist. “You’re safe with me, Mycroft. You know that, right?” He shakes his head. “Of course you do. What am I thinking? Maybe I shouldn’t…I’m being ridiculous, right? Why would a man like you need a man like me to look out for you? You’ve probably got a valet, and maids, and caregivers, and a fancy lot to do all that.”

“Gregory, stop.” I surprise myself by pressing my forehead to his. “There isn’t anything about you that isn’t good enough for me. And since you’re being the Detective Inspector today, you should know that I don’t care for the trappings of wealth in that sense. I prefer to dress myself, and I tend to eat at my club. I do employ a service for housekeeping and there are various, ah, assistants, but only because I’m rather busy.”

“I’m not judging you.”

“No, but you are judging yourself by a standard that does not exist.”

“So, then you’ll let me see to you?”

I look at him, with his bloody chocolate eyes shining earnestly, and my resolve flies right out of the French doors. “I’ll allow it.”

“Brilliant.” He plants a swift kiss to my lips, and then slowly begins backing me out of the sitting room, toward the bedroom. His hands are unbuttoning my shirt, and pushing it off my shoulders. “Loving you without a tie and waistcoat. And no cufflinks, either. So easy to get at.”

“Careful…” I warn as my shirt flutters to the floor. “That is an expensive shirt.”

“I’m sure all your clothes are expensive, but I’m going to do that often. Choose your battles,” he smirks, and nudges me toward the bed. “Oh, aren’t you just a sexy thing in your vest and trousers. Makes me want to… Shit. Just… get your kit off…well, as much of it as you’re cool with, yeah? Back in a tick.”

I watch him go back to the main room, and grimace at what’s to come. I haven’t been fully undressed in front of a man in ages. So long ago that I didn’t have this much chest hair. Dear lord, what have I gotten myself into? I slip off my shoes and socks, and consider my trousers. On? Off? Unfastened? My heart feels as though it is going to pop out of my chest. Am I panicking?

Gregory returns, carrying a bottle of champagne, two flutes, a bottle of water, and small plate with grapes, dried fruit, nuts, and cheese. “You’ve got a well-stocked setup here. Hope I choose a decent champagne.” He’s still wearing his shirt, but he’s shucked his vest (which is a rather enticing look on him), and trousers, and is only wearing a pair of well-fitting pair of heather boxer briefs.

I feel my mouth go dry, and groan.

“What’s wrong?” He moves over to sit beside me, setting the bottle on the night table. “Should I have not got the champagne?”

I give him a look. “It’s fine.”

“So then what is it? Changed your mind in the harsh light of the bedroom?” He holds out his hand, offering me two tablets. “Aspirin, or so the bottle says. Have them.”

“I usually don’t…” At his look, I take the tablets, and swallow them dry. “Thank you.”

“Water?”

“Ah, no…”

He sighs. “It’s all right if you have. Changed your mind, that is. I’m not trying to pressure you into having it off with me. I really do just want you to relax. We’re going to be busy for the next day or so.”

“I wasn’t thinking any of that. It’s just that… this is all very intimate, and I’m not one hundred percent comfortable with the, ah, sense of vulnerability that comes with it.” I feel my face heating up, and shake my head. “And I haven’t done this in quite some time. Be easy on me, won’t you?”

“You haven’t had a lie-in in some time?” he teases. “I thought as much. Look… It’s fine. Shuck your trousers, and get in bed. We’ll talk… you know, get to know each other.” He grins and slides under the sheets. “In a non-biblical sense. I’ll feed you almonds and cheese, ply you with champagne, and see where it goes.”

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then I take off my trousers, and ignore his grunt as I lay them neatly across the chest at the end of the bed. “Bespoke clothing should be treated with care.”

“Those are bespoke pants? Very sexy. A bit wild with the colour for you, isn’t it?”

“Blue and green fine check. Cotton. Hardly wild.”

“Wild for you, since you only wore plain white ones that weekend. And sexy, showing off those long legs of yours. Gonna make me forgot all my good intentions, and pin you down on this bed. But…” He pats the space to his left. “Come on, then.”

Swallowing down my trepidation, I ease myself onto the bed, between the cool sheets. “Lovely bed.”

Gregory turns to his side to face me. “You haven’t slept in it?”

“I’ve been working, and had a nap on the sofa.”

“Couldn’t have been comfortable.”

“At the time, it wasn’t a concern.” I tamp down the fluttering in my stomach and the thumping of my heart at the sight of his gorgeous eyes on me. How must I look to him… pale, freckles, hair thinning... god, what on earth could he possibly see in me?

“Mycroft… whatever you’re thinking, stop.” He props himself on the pillows and hands me the bottle. “I’m sure you’re aces at opening champagne. Have a go.”

I take the bottle and uncork it without a fuss. The hiss of the air releasing is lyrical, and I nod approvingly at the subtle bouquet. “A very good choice, Gregory.”

“The label looked fancy.” He laughs and takes the bottle back. “Glad you approve. Now, just lie back and relax, or you’re going to have a heart attack. And if you do, I’m going to leave you here and blame your death on a random beach bum.”

“The surveillance will show otherwise.”

“You mean someone is watching us having a lie-in?”

“No. However, no one is allowed on this floor without authorization. So, then, how would some random beach bum get in here to kill me?”

“They’re crafty, those types,” he laughs. “And so, are you always under watch? Or guard?”

“Heavens, no. Here, I am under guard because the usual safeguards aren’t in place. And guard isn’t the correct wording. Protected is more fitting.”

“Because you know all the secrets, right?” He winks and holds out a piece of cheese. “Have a bite.”

“I can deduce all of the secrets, were I of a mind to do so. However, I am the laziest devil in shoe leather, and find it tedious. I am offered protection because I am in the service of the Crown.” I take the cheese, and eat it, thankful that it’s a decent cheddar, sharp and rather tasty. “Thank you. This is quite good.”

“I aim to please. Thought you’d be more of a snob about your food, though. You know, fancy cheese from a cave in Alsace, or your tea-smoked chicken mayo.”

“I do enjoy fine foods, but when in Rome…” I reach for the glass of champagne. “Perhaps a toast?”

“Sure.” He lifts his glass. “To us.”

“Us?”

“The Lestrade-Holmes Consortium, you called it.”

“Holmes-Lestrade,” I correct. “Alphabetical order.”

“Yeah, right.” He taps his glass against mine, and swallows the champagne down in one large gulp. “That’s right lovely, that.”

“How barbaric. Did you even taste it?”

“I thought you were supposed to drink it all in one go when a toast is proposed,” he says sheepishly.

“That’s only in Peru, and only if you believe in wood nymphs.” I take a sip. “Pour yourself another glass, so that you can taste the floral notes that are interlaced with exotic wood.”

“Sounds horrid, but I’ll go with your judgement on that.” He pours himself another glass, and sips at it cautiously. “Hm… that does make a difference. Your father said your grandfather exposed you to liquor when you were nine. That’s a bit young, isn’t it?”

I really need to have a chat with my father about offering information about me. At this rate, I won’t have any secrets. “Any young gentleman worth his salt should be able to make a perfect gin and tonic by his twelfth birthday,” I say, quoting my grandfather. “I could do so by the time I was ten. And I developed a rather fine palate, thanks to his instruction.”

“Instruction? Contributing to the delinquency of a minor, more like. But, if anything, my work has taught me that the wealthy operate on a different set of rules.”

“Yes, well… I suppose it was unlawful.” I set my drink aside and squeeze his leg gently. “There are worse things, Gregory.”

He nods and bites down on an almond. “Ninety percent of almonds are grown in California, you know.”

“I did not know, and am not sure why you do.”

“I like researching things. Dates, strawberries, avocados, and cherries are top producing California crops, too. Most of the state’s water is used for agriculture.”

Perhaps I put my drink aside too quickly. “So this is what we’re going to do? Talk about California agriculture? Have I mentioned I prefer silence?”

“You may have, but I am learning that seventy percent of what you say is just idle chatter, so...” He gives me a sheepish look “Sorry.”

“I have never indulged in idle chatter.”

“No, but that’s how my brain is processing it. Go figure.”

“I’m not sure as to whether or not I should be offended.”

“You shouldn’t.” He takes another sip of champagne. “I’m sure you’ll do a Holmes on me sooner or later, and offend me to some degree.”

“A ‘Holmes’?” I frown, mulling that over. “Ah, deductions. For the record, that is more Sherlock’s milieu than mine. I find it tedious and trite.”

“But you do it.”

“I prefer to keep my observations to myself.”

He laughs. “And then use them when needed.”

“Just so.”

“Right, so we’ll do this the old-fashioned way, then. What’s your favourite colour?”

“Why would I single out one colour above the others?”

“Mycroft…”

“I’d like to hear you say my name like that again,” I say with my best predatory smile. “Though wearing less clothing, and in a deeper, more desperate tone.””

To my utter delight, his pupils dilate, and his breathing hitches slightly. He takes a large gulp of champagne, and sets the glass aside. “Ah… yes, well… let’s stick to the matter at hand without distractions, hm?”

“Oh… am I distracting you from your interrogation?”

“I’m not interrogating you.”

“Oh, well, that’s most certainly a relief.” I laugh. “I’d hate to have to thwart your efforts.”

“I’m trying to get to know the man I’m marrying tomorrow.” He clears his throat. “Do you like poetry?”

“Not particularly. As to colours, I prefer blues and greys. Occasionally, earth tones. I do not like yellow. And you?”

“Blue, like your eyes. Greens and golds, as well. I don’t like brown. It annoys me.”

“Interesting reaction to a colour.”

“Yeah, well… I’m strange. How about reading?”

“I enjoy it immensely.”

“What do you read when you’re not reading top secret dossiers and such?”

“The classics, mainly. Shakespeare, mythology, Hawthorne… it greatly depends on my mood. When I’m feeling particularly aggressive, I calm myself with Nietzsche. And you?”

“I like history. Saxons, Tudors... one of my professors said I took too much of a fancy to Anne Boleyn. Or was it Cromwell…? Not really sure, but I find them both fascinating. When I’ve had a bad day at work, I read Rumi to relax.”

I lift both brows at that. “Rumi, and history? That is rather surprising. I took you for a hard-boiled detective type of man. The mean streets, gritty crimes, dames, and the like.”

“Get enough of that at work,” he smiles. “When I’m off, I like relaxing reading. If I’m not reading, I like to go for a nice drive, and think. Or to the local, watch a match, have a pint.”

“I like to be alone.”

“So you’ve said. But you’re going to marry me. You want me to stay on at my flat, and have conjugal visits with you once a month?”

“No,” I reply with a frown. “I’ve enough rooms in my home that you won’t be underfoot.”

“I’m not an orphan you’re taking in, Mycroft,” he huffs. “I’m to be your civil partner. Significant other. Husband. Lawfully wedded.”

“I am aware.”

“Underfoot,” he snorts. “Where do you… well, I guess that would be we now… where do we live?”

“That is highly dependent on several things,” I hedge.

He lifts his right hand, palm facing me. “Mycroft Holmes, I solemnly swear that I will not reveal the whereabouts of your secret lairs. You can have me blindfolded when it’s time for me to come home.” He drops his hand, but not before showing me his middle finger. “Jesus, it’s like pulling teeth.”

“Apologies, but I’m not used to being asked such questions. I have several places, Gregory. I have a flat near Westminster, a proper home near Hampton Court, another in Belgravia, a chateau in France, and properties in Weybridge, and Dorset, to name a few. I also have a suite and a basement office at the Diogenes Club, which you already know.”

“France? I love France. Got up to a lot of… mischief in France. I’d love to live in France.”

His enthusiasm makes me smile. “France is all you heard in all of that? Geographically, you can’t live in France whilst working at Scotland Yard, Gregory.”

“I’m aware,” he says with a wink. “But… France, Mycroft. Surely one can visit…?”

“One can. Advance notice would be needed to ensure that it is not in use.” At his look, I explain, “Our… it doubles as a base of operations. When needed.”

“Ah, the lair of the mastermind,” he teases. “Which do you prefer?”

“Near Westminster. Convenient to work and what have you. I think you would like it.” I look at him. “That is, if you’re certain you wish to continue this madness.”

“I do. What’s it like, this flat? And I assume by flat, you mean mansion, or something close.”

“It is a multi-level dwelling. As we speak, it is being retrofitted to accommodate our combined lifestyles.”

“Oh, you bastard!” he practically shouts, and bats me on the arm. “You planned to marry me all along, didn’t you?”

“I… ah, well… I did. I do. But it made no sense to me, and so I wavered rather frequently over the past six weeks,” I admit with a sheepish look in his direction. “To my credit, I ordered the work to begin after our first weekend together.”

“And left me in misery for over a month. What a tosser.”

“I am.” I figure agreeing will stop him from striking me again. “But I belong to you now.”

“Lucky me. Moving on, I assume you have a housekeeper and such to take care of things, yeah? I can’t imagine you cooking, or doing the hoovering, truth be told.”

“My father insisted that I have responsibilities when I was younger because of some absurd notion regarding the devil and idle hands. So, I was to bring in and fold the linens when Mummy hung them to dry. I also kept a weather eye on Sherlock, cleaned my rooms, and tended a small herb garden. In fact, I still do. When I was twelve, I usurped my parent’s authority, and took over the handling of the household finances.”

“So, nothing’s changed much then?”

“John is doing a decent turn at keeping an eye on Sherlock, so not much need for that these days. Gardening is a way to quiet my mind when I am unable to seek out the solace of my club. The smell of the soil and the herbs is quite soothing to me.” I feel my face heating up at revealing so much of my private life to him.

“Don’t,” he says softly, firmly. He takes the fruit tray and sets it on the bedside table, and turns to me. “You’re a mystery, an enigma, and I want to know whatever I can about you.”

“Yes, fine. I understand. I’ll try. I’m just not… comfortable with all this.”

“I know, love. And you’re doing fine. I won’t tell anyone your secrets. You know that, right?”

“Again, I’m marrying you. And I am aware that you are very good at keeping secrets.” I lay a hand on the scar on his right thigh, and rub my thumb across it. “So very brave, my stalwart detective inspector. This wasn’t done by a knife.”

He frowns. “No. Mycroft…”

“It’s all right,” I soothe, my thumb still making light circles on the scar. “A skewer of some sort, I believe.”

“It… ah, do you watch any telly? News programmes, things of that sort?”

“How dull. Perhaps a poker? No, too large.”

He clears his throat. “Any sport you fancy?”

“Polo, and rowing.” I let my thumb rest on the spot just below the line of his pants. “Something long and pointy, then?”

“Are we talking about sex?” he asks with a grin. “If so, move your hand up a bit. It’s not pointy, but you’ll be glad of that in the end.”

“Long, though. Pleasingly so, if memory serves.” I slide my thumb just under the hem of his pants. “There?”

“Higher.”

“Ah, it was a sharpened stick.”

He moves his leg away. “Mycroft.”

“As much as you want to know me, you should know that I thrive on learning secrets. I want to know yours, and the more you don’t tell me, the more curious I become. There is nothing worse than a curious Holmes, Gregory.”

“Leave it to you to be insanely curious about something that happened ten years ago,” he sighs. “You couldn’t be curious about how it would feel for you to be pinned to this bed with me snogging you senseless, could you?”

“Oh, I’m curious about that as well,” I say with a smile. “But you decided that knowing my favourite colour was more important.”

“I didn’t want to rush you,” he says, ducking his head.

“We could have sat on the sofa and had this little chat, but no. You got in bed in your pants and a shirt, and insisted I do the same. This is the road to town that your grandmother warned you about taking, Gregory.” I lean in close, and press my lips to his neck. “Is town your destination?”

***

**“Cheeky bugger, throwing my words back at me like that,” Greg says with a soft smile.**

**“It worked,” Mycroft says, pulling him closer against him. “You can’t resist a challenge, and I had no doubt that my words would spur you to action.”**

**“You could have just asked me to snog you, you sod. But no, you’ve always got to do things the Holmes way. And so I had to show you who was boss…”**

*******

Spurred on by his smug words, I quickly roll over and straddle him. And god help me, if he doesn’t feel like heaven, pliant and ready under me. “Oh, Mycroft, you feel just lovely under me.” I caress his face, grazing my knuckles across his jawline, down his neck, around to his chest. “Too many clothes.”

“Let’s…” He shifts nervously, and I can feel the hammering of his heart against my hand. “Gregory…”

“I know, I know…” I soothe. “We’ll leave it for now because I don’t want to go too fast. You’re like a fine glass of wine to linger over, you know? Just…” I dip my head and press a series of light kisses to the hollow of his throat, and back to his ear. “Spread your legs for me, love,” I whisper and shift so that he can move.

He bends his legs, and I slide between them, fitting myself against him with a groan. “Fuck…”

“I don’t understand how you’ve managed to arouse me so thoroughly in so little time.”

“You’ve been fighting it, trying to make it logical.” I move my hips forward. “It’s not. It can’t be. All that blood rushing below the waist… all sense flies out the window.”

“I know all that,” he says in that high-handed tone of his. “I am usually able to control the instances in which I become aroused.”

“Are you?” I duck down, and suck at his bottom lip.

“Ye-esss,” he moans as I release his lip by grazing it with my teeth. “I… well, I don’t think it’s a necessary evil. It’s messy, emotional, and it destroys the brain cells. I have no need for it, and while I haven’t found a way to overcome my body’s reaction to certain stimuli, I can do without it.”

“Bollocks.” I grab ahold of his leg and push it upward, and press my dick against his. “Feel that? That’s what you do to me. Every time I’m in the same room with you. Oh, and what’s this…?” I move my hips in a circle. “Looks like you’re just as aroused as I am. A good sized erection coming on, and it’s because of what I’m doing to you, and what I’m going to do to you. So much for turning it off and on at will.”

His hands smooth down my back, and under my shirt, nails raking gently across my skin. “Gregory… please…”

“Please what? Don’t? Do? Stop? Start?”

“I… don’t know. Gregory… Oh, god,” he cries out as I thrust forward again. “Please.”

“You still haven’t said what you want,” I saying, kissing my way down his neck to his chest. “You want me to touch you? I’ll do anything you want, Mycroft. Just tell me.”

“You… I want you.”

“And you’ve got me.” I reach a hand into his boxers, and press my hands over his cock. Oh, god… it’s huge, hot, hard, and I want to shove it in my mouth and have him squirming under me for hours. “Damn, Mycroft. You’ve got a huge knob.”

He closes his eyes and arches his back as my finger trails across the head of his erection. “I, ah… not certain what the… oh, god… the etiquette… Gregory, please…”

“Mm… it’s going to take all your fingers to get me ready to take this monster,” I say, moving my hands up and down said monster in an easy rhythm. “Can’t wait.”

He blushes and looks away.

Well, that’s telling. I squeeze his cock gently, and watch as the blush deepens, and his breath catches. “Oh, Archimedes, you lied to me.” I reluctantly move my hands away, and sit up.

“Do not make me regret telling you my middle names, Gregory.” He frowns, and scoots up to rest on his elbows. “Why did you stop?”

“Right here, in this bed, you are Archimedes, the lying berk.”

“What are you alleging? To my knowledge, I’ve been perfectly honest with you.”

“Okay, so you didn’t lie. But you obfuscated. Hedged. Omitted important details. No… I think lying suits you best.”

“I am confused as to how we’ve gone from masturbation to accusations.”

I lean in, and cover his lips with mine. His arms go around my waist without hesitation, and I pull back. “You haven’t done this before. Any of it.”

“I…” He blinks rapidly, and looks at a spot over my shoulder. “Well. Yes. That is…”

“Hey…” I roll off him, and sit up against the pillows. “I’m not disappointed, or judging. I think it’s sexy. You’re like a newborn colt, all skittish, trying to find your legs.  I just want to know why you didn’t say. What did you think I was going to do, walk off?”

“I reluctantly admit that I was unsure what your response would be. I felt it best for both of us if you were under the impression that I had some experience.”

“Best for you, you mean.”

“Well… I suppose so. I am not a young man, Gregory, and I am painfully aware that my… status… is rare. I do not like being ridiculed, or being the object of someone’s pity. Or worse, mocked. Most men wouldn’t have noticed. How did you know?”

“Your reactions… there’s something… like it’s new to you. You don’t exactly know what to do with your hands, and you’re trying not to seem too keen. Like when you had me against you at the Ritz… You’re savouring the sensations, and it’s like you’re drowning in them. People who have had sex don’t do that. Even with someone new.”

He’s quiet for a few moments, then he sighs. “Are you put off?”

“Not at all. In fact, it makes me a bit giddy that you’re experiencing it all for the first time with me. Why?”

“Why?”

“Mycroft.”

“It could be used to compromise me.”

“Right. Did your precious cellist ask for favours in exchange for getting you off? Is that what you think I’ll do?” I shake my head. “I don’t need or want anything from you. Well, except your delectable body, underneath me, or on top of me… whatever you prefer.”

Twin spots of colour rise on his cheekbones, and he ducks his head. “I have no preference, really because I… there isn’t anything to it. It’s highly overrated, and has been the downfall of many men. I don’t…. can’t allow – ”

“So, what, then? We get married and sleep in in single beds, side by side, like we’re bloody Lucy and Ricky? No, ta…. I’ve already done that.”

“Gregory, you’re being melodramatic.”

“When I said I wanted to take care of you, I meant in every sense, Mycroft Holmes. Not in name only, not in separate beds, not as sodding friends who get a hand job on bank holidays. I want it all,” I huff. “If that’s not what you’re after, then you can bloody well forget marrying me tomorrow!” I roll off the bed and storm off to the toilet.

***

**“How did we even get married?” Greg asks.**

**“Part of what makes our relationship work is the volatile nature of many of our interactions. It seems that I was wrong, and opposites do attract.”**

**“I can’t believe you expected me not to want to have sex with you.”**

**“I didn’t, Gregory,” Mycroft corrects. “And I wanted it as well. And that was why I hesitated to marry you. I knew it was foolish to think you’d be all right with occasional sex.”**

**“I would have if your reasons weren’t bloody ridiculous,” Greg huffs. “If I thought for one minute that you were asexual, or whatever, I would have accepted that, and still married you. But your reason was bollocks. And so is your reason for not introducing me as your husband.”**

**“You’ve just apologised for having expectations of me,” Mycroft says. “Was that a lie?”**

**“No. I am sorry for my unreasonable expectations. Doesn’t make what happened hurt less.”**

**“Well, I obviously got it right,” Mycroft sniffs, “because here we are two years later, married. Unless there’s something you’ve yet to tell me…?”**

**Greg snorts and shakes his head. “I’m here, in your working suite, in bed, with my nose buried in your neck. I thought you Holmeses were supposed to be bright.”**

**“Emotions trip us up.”**

**“I’ll say.” Greg yawns. “I’m going to close my eyes for a bit, yeah? Wake me when your meeting is done.”**

**“I’ll stay here until Andrea gets back. If that’s all right with you, that is.”**

**“I love you, Mycroft. You shouldn’t doubt that.”**

**“This is all strange to me.” Mycroft rubs a hand across his forehead. “Perhaps a short nap will do us both some good.”**

**“Yeah.” Greg shifts to accommodate Mycroft’s knee between his legs. “Feels like it’s been ages since I’ve been next to you.”**

**“Nearly a week,” Mycroft laughs, throwing an arm across Greg’s body. “Hush, now… relax.”**

**“Mm.” Greg breathes in and out slowly, relaxing into Mycroft’s embrace.**

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took liberties. Again. And there are probably unbelievable bits in here. You'll live. That Zegna in midnight blue is very sexy. And yes, Andrea has that kind of clout. So does Mycroft. And I know crap about champagne, but I read how one should describe its taste and such, and that was it. Same goes for the Royal Navy. That ship is real, and so is the rank and service. The location is not. Research, lol. 
> 
> They'll get married soon. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. Comments and questions are most welcome.


	7. Afternoon Delight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft indulge in a duvet afternoon. Secrets and passions are shared. And by passions, I mean sex. Yasss! 
> 
> Also, Mycroft doesn't do either of those things well, so be warned. The road to love and the path to staying in love is rocky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Switching updates for this to 'as the hands allow'. Yeah, yeah... I know, but arthritis is a bitch, and as much as I hate disappointing my dear readers, I can't type like I used to. So, thank in advance for your patience. 
> 
> With that in mind, any mistakes or typos that remain are my fault. 
> 
> The chapter title is an Abba song, as I'm sure you all know. 
> 
> Thanks to Edenlost for being there through my tough time, and to Kaye for the same. And to Mystrade lovers who remain faithful to the pairing, thank you for reading, for commenting, and for the kudos. You never know how important those things are to a writer, but really, they keep us going.

_Previously on How I Married Mycroft: The Chase:_

_**“So, what, then? We get married and sleep in in single beds, side by side, like we’re bloody Lucy and Ricky? No, ta…. I’ve already done that.”** _

_**“Gregory, you’re being melodramatic.”** _

_**“When I said I wanted to take care of you, I meant in every sense, Mycroft Holmes. Not in name only, not in separate beds, not as sodding friends who get a hand job on bank holidays. I want it all,” I huff. “If that’s not what you’re after, then you can bloody well forget marrying me tomorrow!” I roll off the bed and storm off to the toilet.** _

_******* _

_**“How did we even get married?” Greg asks.** _

_**“Part of what makes our relationship work is the volatile nature of many of our interactions. It seems that I was wrong, and opposites do attract.”** _

And now...

 

****

 

**Mycroft puts a soothing hand on Greg’s leg as he shifts restlessly in his sleep, and wonders just how he got to the point where’s he’s doing something so unusual.**

**_Oh, you know exactly when you got to this point, he tells himself with slight bitterness. When Gregory came out of the toilet on that day – the day I should have let him walk away, but didn’t. Had I done so, I wouldn’t be lying here, worried about his happiness, worried that I’ll lose him. Worried, period._ **

**_Is caring an advantage? No. But I care for Gregory. And so I am at a disadvantage, and have been since the day I asked him to marry me._ **

**“Mmph,” Greg says groggily. “What’s got you thinking so hard?”**

**“Did I wake you? Apologies.”**

**“Was only dozing,” Greg says, burrowing into Mycroft’s neck. “Meeting that important?”**

**“Yes, but that’s not what’s on my mind. I was thinking about you – well, us, really. The depth of feeling I have for you frightens me.”**

**“It’s all right, love,” Greg says through a yawn. “You knew you wanted to be with me. Stupid fish, fighting the inevitable…”**

**“Yes, how foolish of me…” Mycroft says with a frown...  
**

*******

After what seems like the longest thirteen minutes of my life, Gregory emerges from the bathroom. He’s splashed water on his face, fastened his shirt, and is wearing flannel lounge bottoms. From the distressed look in his eyes, I can only imagine the conclusion he’s come to. Well, it was fun whilst it lasted. “It’s good that we reached this point before the tuxedo fittings. It’s such a headache to cancel once a fitting is done.”

He frowns at me. “What?”

“I assume that you no longer wish to marry me,” I say with my own frown. “I’m uncertain how I should break the news to my mother. Perhaps if we tell her together, it won’t be so bad. What do you think?”

“What I think is that you should stop talking,” he says through gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re usually quicker on the uptake.”

“You appear to be distressed. What am I to think?”

“You’re supposed to think that I’m distressed because you’re a tosser,” he snaps. “We’re still getting married, you berk. I’m not letting you go that easy.”

“But you’ve just said not thirteen minutes ago that I could forget about marrying you.”

“Figures you’d jump to the end, and leave out the important bits. But you got the time down to the second. Tosser.”

“You said…” I narrow my eyes, and recall his words. “Ah, yes, you want it all.”

“And you don’t.” His tone is blunt. “I just don’t want a half-marriage, Mycroft. And I don’t want to marry you if we’re not on the same page.”

“I know that sex is an important part of a marriage, Gregory.”

“But you don’t want it? Any of it?” He frowns. “You have a strange way of showing it, the way you responded to me this morning in the sand, and on Valentine’s weekend, all over me.”

I feel my cheeks warming at the memories of us together. Even with the sand. “Yes, well… it’s not that I don’t want… it with you, but I’m not…” I sound like a fool. “I want to, but – ”

“Hey, hey…” He steps in closer, and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Did something happen to you? Maybe as a lad, or did that ruddy cellist –”

“Gregory, please,” I cut in, nipping that implication in the bud.

“I’ll understand, if so,” he continues. “The football coach at school liked to massage the younger boys’ shoulders in the locker room while trying to rub off on them. He tried it with Grant once, but he wasn’t ready for the wrath of the Lestrade lads. Because of bastards like that, I spend some of my free time talking to kids about it. You know, who to tell, and where to get help.” He ducks his head and I can see that his ears have a slight blush. “I hate shit like that. Perverts.”

And there it is, the reason Sherlock tolerates him, and the reason he’s a good representative of the police force. Compassionate, patient, and kindly, which sounds lovely, but in reality, are really quite dangerous for a person who has secrets and likes to keep them. However… “Nothing like that.”

“Would you tell me?”

“It wouldn’t be my first choice, no,” I say with a shrug. “But I do I find it hard to obfuscate when that lovely dimple of yours appears. It’s very disarming, that smile.”

“And that right there is a bit of obfuscation. And it’s not working.” He folds his arms across his chest, moving from compassionate to doggedly determined in a matter of seconds. “So, then, back to us. What are we going to do?”

“I admit to being well out of my depth. I don’t appreciate how all this makes me… feel. And I’m confused as to why you would still want to marry me when I frustrate you at every turn, and we can’t agree on anything. Even something as simple as sex.”

“This is how real relationships go, Mycroft. I’m not always going to be pleased about things, and neither are you, but we’ll try to work them out because we care for each other.”

“Caring,” I repeat with disdain. “Not an advantage.”

“Maybe, but if you didn’t care – even a little bit – you wouldn’t have agreed to marry me, and you would have already canceled the whole do. But you didn’t do that, did you? Why? There’s really nothing in this for you – what can a bloke like me offer a chap like you? Not much, but you’re willing to risk it because you care for me. It may not be the same way I care for you, but it’s something, right?” He puts both his hands on my waist and pulls me to him. "I’m willing to accept you just like this – stubborn and obfuscating – as long as you’re honest with me. I know you have your secrets and such, but if you care for me, don’t hide that from me.” He lets out a breath. “Do you still want me… us? I mean, you have put your trousers back on…”

“I could ask you the same.” Even though they’re flannel, those bottoms are rather sexy on him, low-slung on his hips, accentuating his lovely arse perfectly.

“Big difference between mine and yours, Mycroft.”

“Stay,” I say, not wanting to draw this out any further. “That is, if you’re still of a mind to have a duvet afternoon…?”

“Is that what you want?”

“This isn’t an interrogation, so please, turn off the Detective Inspector Lestrade… ‘thing’ you’re doing, and answer me as a normal person.”

“It’s not a thing,” he bristles. He takes a calming breath in, and then lets it out. “Don’t be dismissive of what I do, Mycroft. It’s as much a habit as you giving the deducing look.”

I can’t help smiling at that. “Yes, apologies. It’s just that you’re quite good at interrogation, and I forget that.” Well, not so much ‘forget’ as I don’t consider it, damn him. “And so… I’m going to…well, we’re going to get married tomorrow, Gregory. It’s rather hastily put together, but I want it, want you, and so it will happen.”

He laughs, and shakes his head in what I assume is amazement. “I want it too, so don’t go thinking that you’ve masterminded me into marrying you.”

“Oh, never. If anything, you’ve ‘masterminded’ me into all this.” I fill my neglected glass with champagne and take a sip. “Such a delightful aroma on this, Gregory. Well chosen.”

“I told you I chose it because the label looked fancy, but ta. Glad I could do you proud.”

“You have.” I hold up the bottle. “Will you have another glass?”

“I’m good.” He unbuttons his shirt and sits down on the bed. He slides out of the flannel bottoms, and kicks them aside. “Can’t have a duvet afternoon standing around. Come on, shuck your trousers, and get in. Because you standing around without all your kit on is wreaking havoc on my nerves.”

“I do hope you mean that in a good way.” I set the glass on the table, step out of my trousers, and lay them neatly on the chest at the end of the bed for the second time today. “I’m quite envious of your tan.”

“The Lestrade’s are a swarthy lot,” he says with a grin. “But, really, Mycroft, you’re gorgeous. Those legs of yours go on forever, your thighs are firm… and all that hair you’ve got… I thought you’d be one of those blokes who’d do all that shaving. Mansculpting, or what have you. But who would have thought that underneath all those fine clothes is silky, sexy hair. Maybe most blokes would be put off, but I love it.”

“I’m far too busy to do all that,” I say, fighting not to blush. “I try to keep it neat, but the thought of waxing or shaving my chest hair or down below makes me nauseous.”

“Down below. Wow, Mycroft.”

“My language can be quite salty when warranted,” I say. “Not everyone enjoys cursing as much as you do.”

“Well, still, thanks for sharing that. You know, in the spirit of us getting to know one another and all.” He settles against the pillows and smiles. “Shaving your pubes doesn’t make your dick look big, either. I know blokes think so, but big is big. Not that you’ve got any worries in that department.”

“Gregory!”

“You’ve been blessed with a double portion. No need to be ashamed.” He looks over at me with a lascivious grin. “You ever measure it?”

“How crass. Have you? Seems like something you’d do after an evening of drinking.”

“Nope. I’ve been naked in public a time or four, and have gotten ‘the look’ that says it’s bigger than average. That’s good enough for me. And I’ve never had a partner look at it with anything other than amazement. Or hunger. And you called it ‘formidable’ that time.”

“Well, this conversation has certainly taken a turn.”

“What did you want to talk about then?” He shifts and slides down to rest his head on the pillows. “I’m open to anything. Maybe tell me something about you that no one knows?”

“I’ve already told you my middle names,” I say, shifting down to lie on the pillows as well. I prop myself on my elbow, facing him. “I don’t reveal that information just on a whim, Gregory.”

“Oh, please. Your middle names aren’t a secret. Your mum knows, and so does Sherlock. Tell me something else.”

I weigh my options, and settle on something superfluous. “I can knit.”

“That would be admirable if you weren’t a Holmes,” he laughs. “Come again.”

“Fine. Were I stranded on a deserted island, I would have Duke Ellington as my music, prime rib roast and Yorkshire pudding as my food, and Grimm’s Fairy Tales as my reading.”

He laughs even louder. “A crock of shite is what that is. Yorkshire pudding, my arse.”

“I'm not lying," I lie.

“You are. No one would eat cold, soggy yorkies, Mycroft.”

“I tend to underestimate just how clever you can be when it suits you.”

He scoots closer, and presses a kiss on my lips. “Keeps you lot on your toes.” He pushes at my shoulder. “Lie down.”

“What?”

“To be such a proper genius, you can be pretty slow on the uptake.” He turns away from me, and then moves back so that his backside is pressed against me. “Do what comes natural, then.”

I frown at that for a moment, and then it dawns on me. “Ah, yes. Apologies. I’m well out of my –“

“Milieu,” he finishes, and the way he says it sounds nothing like French. “You’ve said. Come on.”

With a large sigh, I turn and fit myself against him, putting my arm across his waist. God, he feels delightfully warm, like a kind of sexy duvet. I nuzzle at the nape of his neck. “This is lovely.”

“Oh, I get flattery? Are you tipsy?”

“Heavens, no,” I laugh. “I’ve only been drunk twice in my life. Once, when I was thirteen, and again when I turned twenty-one. Mixed my liquors. Horrible mistake, resulting in the worst hangover ever.”

“Oi, idle chatter.”

“I’m not chattering. I was attempting to share something with you.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate it, but we’ve got to work on your timing. I’m all pressed against you, willing to do whatever, and you’re going on about mixing liquor.”

“I see,” I say stiffly. “I’m certain you’ll keep me up to speed on how to do all this.”

“Don’t be prickly when we’re lying in bed like this, Mike.”

“Mycroft.”

“Yeah, you’ve said. Your lips on my neck are very distracting,” he says, shifting back further. “And I’m sorry for being angry with you. I won’t push you into something you’re not comfortable with.”

“No, no… it’s good that we should have a conversation about our expectations.”

“So, separate beds, then?”

He sounds resigned and bit dejected. “Of course not. It is hard to change. However…” I move my hand down to his thigh, and back up again. “…the reward is hard to pass on.”

He takes my hand and presses it against his chest. “Glad I can be so tempting. And for the record, I’m crackers for you, Mycroft. I can’t help it.”

“I know. And I’m growing rather fond of you by the minute.” I surprise myself by saying that aloud. “Even though you and I are total opposites, heaven help me, I wouldn’t give you up for the world.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he kisses my knuckles. “That’s a nice thing to say.”

“It’s true. Well, perhaps some parts of the world, but it would be hard.”

He chuckles and kisses my knuckles again. “I know. Thank you.”

I tuck him closer against me, and close my eyes. After a few minutes, I say, “In my, ah, work, there are… shall we say, perks… that come with my minor position.”

“Yes, minor,” he says, his tone rather droll.

I ignore him, as I knew that’s what he’d say. “There are cars, jets, expensive meals, wine, top shelf liquor, sex for any preference or kink, clothing, five-star lodgings… there isn’t anything I can’t ask for and receive, should the mood strike me. Most people would be surprised to learn that none of that fazes me. I use those perks to make an impression when needed, but honestly, it’s just part and parcel of my position.”

“Lovely perks, though. Especially the sex part,” he chuckles.

“If that’s your fancy, yes. However... there are times…” I take in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “There’s a small restaurant in Argentina. It’s not even a restaurant, really. Just a place where a person can get a meal. Well off the beaten track. In fact, most tourists and outsiders know nothing about it. It’s about an hour and a half from the main city. Just a shack at the end of road, that’s been run by the same family for five generations. When you go there, you’re just, well, they treat you like any other person who comes in – there’s nothing special about anyone. It’s like eating in someone’s home. You go in, and sit at a rickety table with mismatched chairs, and chipped plates.”

“Doesn’t sound like your kind of place.”

“No, and based on all that, you’d think the food would be rather dodgy, but, it isn’t. It’s simply prepared, but the care and attention to flavour makes it the best food I’ve ever eaten.”

“Ever?”

“Yes. There’s manchego cheese served with warmed quince paste, and empanadas with olives and bits of boiled egg in them, and a platter of smoked, cured meats that is perfect, and you could just eat that, and walk away, satisfied. And just when you feel as though you can’t eat another bite, but they bring out a tray of perfectly barbecued meat – beef and lamb – and their famous chimichurri sauce. And god, it’s so basic… just meat, salt, and fire, but I’ve never eaten meat so utterly tender and delicious. After the first time I ate there, I dreamt of it for weeks. And so, sometimes, I just commandeer a plane, and go there. Just to have that meat.”

“Wait, what? You take a plane and just fly off to Argentina to have a meal? Can you do that?”

“I have, so the question is moot.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it is.” He tilts his head back to look at me. “Just you, then?”

“And the pilots.”

“So, there’s just you, on a plane, flying from London to Argentina. They think it’s business, but when you get back on the plane, you’re smelling like smoke and meat, and you’ve probably got takeaway containers of goodies that the women there have pressed on you, and the pilots are thinking that you’re some filthy rich bloke who’s got a mistress or mister hidden away in the hills.”

“They are well paid to pilot the plane, not to speculate on why I am in need of their services. I’m just a non-descript British man in dull clothing, flying to Argentina.”

“You not wearing all your finery?” He laughs. “I’d love to see that.”

“You will, when I take you to Argentina for dinner. And I’ll teach you to tango.” I trace a finger over his lips. “Not even Andrea knows this, Gregory.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he says, “Oh, you bastard. You’ve just told me a secret.”

“So I have. And now that I have, can we lie here in silence for a bit? My headache is dissipating, thanks to those aspirin, but I could use some quiet.”

He ignores me in favour of detaching himself from me, and getting out of bed. “Let me help. On your stomach.”

“Gregory, I just want to –”

“Your stomach, please.”

I sigh, but roll over as he says. “What are you going to do?”

“Hush, love. Close your eyes, and relax.”

“Stop calling me love. You only do it when you’re feeling guilty or trying to manipulate me.”

“God himself couldn’t manipulate you, Mycroft Holmes,” he laughs. “And I do love you.”

“Yes, yes… you’ve said. Just get on with it, if you would.”

“Right.” He moves around the bed and straddles my hips. “Head down.”

“Gregory…” I shake my head, and let it drop to the pillow.

“Thank you.”

He gently rubs my temples in a circular motion, and I must admit that it does feel good. His hands sweep up the sides of my head, through my hair and back down again. Over and over, his gentle touch moves over my head down to my shoulders, to my neck, and then to my temples. And it feels divine. I am so much putty in his hands. What in god’s name is wrong with me? I should put a stop to this madness, and take control of the situation before I find myself – “Oh, that is wonderful,” I groan as his thumbs ease the knot at the base of my neck.

“Better?” he asks, moving his hands down to press firmly between my shoulder blades.

“Hm,” is all I can manage. So much for control.

“Good.” He moves his hands again, and pushes my vest up to bare my skin.

“Gregory.”

“Relax,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the spot behind my ear.

I shiver and tilt my head to give him better access to that spot.

“Oh… sensitive there? Good to know.”

Because I am hopeless, I sigh, and say, “Would you do that again?”

“Oh, yes…anything you want, just ask…” He nips at that spot, and then flicks his tongue over my ear, and to the back. Then he sucks at that sensitive spot – hopefully not hard enough to make a mark – and trails a hand down my back to rest just above the band of my pants. “You have such gorgeous skin, Mycroft. And with these freckles, it’s like berries and cream.” He kisses his way down my back, and up again. “I should stop.”

“You shouldn’t,” I say, feeling slightly light-headed.

He sits back against my upper thighs, and presses his palms into the spot just above my waist. “I’m touching you, and god help me, you’re so soft and sexy and willing, and I can’t…” He moves forward, and lays flat against me. “Feel how hard I am right now. All you have to do is say the word, and I’ll strip you naked and fuck you until the morning.” He shifts off me and flops down on his back. “We’re not ready for all that. So we stop. All right?”

I hesitate. The closeness, the touching, the feel of him, hard and ready on top of me… things I thought I’d never want, things I thought were beyond my reach, and now here they are, on offer from an insane police officer who has got the most gorgeous arse I’ve ever laid eyes on. God help us both. “No… well, I don’t know. I can’t think right now.”

“Bet that’s a first.”

“Yes. I can think, but it’s just about you. Well, us. In this bed, and the things we could share. I want… all of it. But, as you say, we’re not ready.”

He lets out a snort of laughter. “Oh, I’m ready, Mycroft. All you have to do is say the word.”

I risk a glance at his crotch. Ready, indeed. He’s about to burst the seams of his pants. “As far as ideas go, this is the worst one you’ve ever had.”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry at all. In fact, you sound pleased with yourself. Are you, Gregory?”

“I’m pleased as punch that you want me, but you don’t know how to go about getting me,” he laughs. “Virgins.”

I frown at that. “Only in deed, Detective Inspector.”

“Hey, hey…” He sits up and turns to face me. “None of that now. I was joking.”

“As much as I am hesitant to, ah, have it off with you, sex and pleasure aren’t foreign concepts to me, Gregory. You are the more experienced in this; however, your experience cannot trump my ability to learn quickly, and that I can deduce precisely where to touch you to reduce you to a quivering, brainless lump of sated flesh.”

Both his eyebrows go up. “Oh, really?”

“Yes,” I say resolutely. “Definitely.”

“All right, then, Mister Clever-Clogs,” he says with a grin that is predatory, smug, and lustful, “have at me.” He tugs off his shirt, and tosses to the foot of the bed, and then lies down (in just his well-fitting briefs, heaven help me), arms out, legs spread. “Let’s see what you can come up with.”

I look at him to determine if he’s having a laugh at my expense, but he isn’t. He’s serious, and quite keen, if the shifting of his legs to accommodate his rampant erection is any clue. “One stipulation.”

He rolls his eyes. “Of course there is. What?”

“Leave your pants on.”

He groans loudly in protest, and pulls the band of his pants open to look inside. “Oh my god, Mycroft. I’m bloody hard as stone. If I don’t take my pants off, I might sprain something!”

“On,” I say firmly. “Agreed?”

“If it’ll make you happy, yes. Now, can you get on with it? I’m not even quivering a little.”

“You will,” I promise, surprising myself with how lustful I sound. I roll over and straddle him, careful to avoid his raging erection. “All right?”

“Fine, fine,” he says eagerly. His hands grip my hips, and he moves under me. “Christ, you feel good like this.”

“So do you.” I trail the back of my hand down the line of hair on his chest. “How lovely, this hair. And it’s like a signpost straight down to your rather lovely cock, isn’t it?” He shifts at my touch. “Oh, an erogenous zone? Just perfect.” I swirl a finger across his nipple, and smile as he jerks upward. “Sensitive there, of course. Let’s see how you like this…” I dip my head and flick my tongue around the erect bud, and smile as his hands come up to rest in my hair.

“Oh, that’s just… umph,” he gasps as I lick at him again. “Devilish tongue.”

“So responsive,” I whisper, ghosting my fingers down his chest to the patch of hair just above the band of his pants. “You like to be touched, yet here you are, marrying a man who doesn’t.”

“Liar…” he arches up as I press my tongue into the hollow beneath his throat. “You like touching me. And you love it when I touch you. Oh, god… Mycroft…”

“Choose one name,” I laugh, and suck none too gently on his neck.

“…gonna mark me,” he moans, his hands tightening on my waist.

“Yes.” I suck another mark on the other side of his neck. “Symmetry is so important.” Inspired by how easily he bruises, I suck my way across his chest, and down his stomach, leaving a trail of small red marks as I go. “I want to taste every part of you, Gregory. How are you making me feel this way?”

“I did warn you,” he says, his eyes dark with lust. “Give us a kiss, please.”

I shake my head. “Too risky.”

“Risky? You’re in control here, Mycroft.”

“I don’t trust myself to stop. I concede your point – your lips are lethal, and you kiss like there’s no tomorrow.”

“Only with you.” His hands grip my arse and squeeze. The feeling is delightful. “Please,” he begs. “Set this gorgeous arse of yours right on top of my dick, and kiss me. I won’t let us go too far.”

Heaven help me, but that’s tempting. To feel him against me, to move together toward orgasm… Christ, I want it. I swallow hard and look down at him. Face flushed, pupils dilated, lips slightly parted, breath shallow… pure desire. Or lust. Either way, I take pride in the fact that I did this to him with just my tongue and hands. No telling what would happen if I move forward as he’s requesting. Oh, hell. “All right.” I move back, and feel a jolt as his sizeable erection fits itself right in to the cleft of my arse. Bloody thin pants, I think sourly.

“Bloody hell, that feels good,” he groans, lifting his hips frantically. His knees bend, and I can feel him even more so. “Yes, just like that.” He trails a finger along the line of my erection through my pants, and smiles as it moves with his finger. “Look at that, how eager you are for me. Let me touch you, Mycroft…” Before I can answer, he slides a hand through the slit in my pants, and grips my erection firmly.

I throw my head back and let out an embarrassingly loud groan. “Gregory, please…”

He grins. “Should have kissed me, then I wouldn’t have been able to reach.”

My hips are moving forward of their own volition, seeking the friction from his hand. “If you could… ah… I can’t…”

“You want me to stop?”

“Yes,” I moan, shaking my head in opposition to my own words. “No. I don’t… just…. If you could…” I shake my head. “Gregory.”

“I love when you’re like this. Wanting me, what I have to give you, confused because no one has ever touched you like this before, and you don’t know how to feel. This big cock, all mine, feels so good in my hand, love. I want to suck it, to get you off. What do you want?”

Dear god… if he puts his lips anywhere near me, this will all be over. But… “I want...” I brace my hands on his chest, and move my hips in time with his hand.

“Come on, then,” he pants, and pushes himself up to a sitting position. He leans forward and kisses me hungrily, seeming to devour me.

I give in to the fierceness of the kiss, and feel a shot of pure lust explode down my spine. I drop my hand to the back of his pants, tugging at them, wanting to feel the warm flesh of his arse in my palms. I wrench my mouth away from his, and bury my face in the crook of his neck. “Gregory…”

“Pants stay on,” he says, nipping at my ear. “If they come off, I’m going to fuck you hard and fast, Mycroft. And you’re not ready for it like that. I can’t… I’m barely sane at this point.”

I shiver at his words. “Maybe… perhaps you shouldn’t touch me like you’re doing.”

The up and down twisting motion he’s applying to my cock slows but doesn’t still. “Why would I do that? Don’t you like it?”

“Yes… I do, but I can’t think with you touching me. I don’t… it’s… am I supposed to feel this light-headed?”

“Yes, you are, love. And I don’t want you thinking right now,” he growls, and tightens his grip on my cock, which seems to have gotten harder. “Come on, now… let’s get this finished so your head will clear. Move, love. Take what you need…”

Again my hands are on his arse, squeezing, and pushing at his pants. “I want to touch you in the same fashion… please…”

“You won’t need to. When you come, I’m going to come, yeah? Just keep touching me like that, and focus on how I'm making you feel.” His other hand comes up, and rubs across my nipple. “So responsive,” he husks in my ear. His hand keeps up a steady rhythm, pulling and twisting, and moving his own cock against my arse, and I feel like I’m falling.

“Gregory… I’m…” I can feel the tightening of my bollocks, and I grind down on him, reveling in the feel of him hard and heavy beneath me. “Christ, this feels like madness… “ I take in a deep breath, and as I do, he tightens his grip on my cock, and before I can speak to that, my back is arching, and I just let go with an loud wail of “Oh, god, Gregory!” and would have slumped over to the side, had it not been for his other arm steadying me.

“Oh, yeah… that’s bloody sweet,” he laughs, and thrusts his hips up. He buries his face in my neck, and latches his teeth onto the junction of neck and shoulder. “Mm… so good… oh, Mycroft, so fucking sexy…” He trembles and shudders, and then he comes with a low moan that is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. “Damn it, damn it, damn,” he pants, and stops moving. “Son of a bitch, that was good.” He keeps his arm around me, a gentle hand moving along my back. After a few moments, he collapses on the bed, tugging me down with him.

The aftermath of the euphoria of orgasm is the reality of bodily fluids cooling in my pants, his hand, sticky with bodily fluids, and that my brain is only functioning at about thirty-seven percent. Dear lord, this is intolerable. “If you could remove your hand…” I say quietly.

Something in my tone makes his eyes snap open, and he moves his hand off my now limp cock. As he wipes his wet hand on my pants, I try not to grimace. “It’s all right, Mycroft. You were amazing, letting me have you like that. Just imagine what it’ll be like when we fuck…”

Embarrassed, I shift my eyes to a spot beyond his shoulder. “Yes, well. If you could move your legs and let me go, I’ll just go and clean up…”

“Give us a minute,” he says, his tone slightly sharp, despite his lethargy. “I know it’s new to you, but let a bloke catch his breath before you go washing off the sex germs.”

“Sex germs?” I frown. “Have you short-circuited your brain? I was afraid this would be the end result of our tryst…”

“Post-sex rules state that one wait at least five minutes after orgasm to have a wash,” he says, his tone formal and clipped. “Rushing out of bed straight away says you think I was rubbish. Or unclean.”

I blush at that; it never occurred to me. “Your pants are damp, and they’re pressed against my arse, making my pants damp in back as well as the front. Very unpleasant. But, I do apologise for being gauche.” I look at him and smile. “If it helps, it was very pleasurable.”

“Ta for that. I’m being snappish. You’re all right, Mycroft.”

I move to leave the bed, but stop. “It is rather unpleasant, damp pants. I’ll only leave if you’re sure you won’t be offended.”

“You should kiss me to make sure,” he says with a sly smile.

“Not until you concede defeat,” I say with a smile of my own.

He groans. “Mycroft…”

“Say it.”

“I’m a quivering , brainless mass of sated flesh,” he grumbles.

“Close enough,” I say with a nod, and he tugs me into a hot, searing kiss.

***

Twenty minutes later, we are cleaned up, and back in bed. His head is resting on my chest, and his fingers are rubbing through the hair on my stomach. I should be uncomfortable at the intimacy, but I can’t muster up the strength to do so.

“It was a skewer,” he says quietly. “A rotisserie skewer, to be exact.”

I blink away a bit of the lethargy. “Hm?”

“The scar.”

“Ah… yes. Odd choice of tool for torture.”

“We were in a restaurant supply warehouse, so it was handy, I suppose.”

I wait.

“Never felt pain like that before,” he continues after a moment. “Being punched and slapped about was bad enough, but that… sometimes I can still feel it.”

I put a hand in his hair and massage his scalp gently. “What did they want to know?”

“The names of the undercover agents who’d infiltrated their organization. Eastern European blokes – big and mean. Specialised in torture. But I couldn’t tell them because I didn’t know.”

“Were you alone?”

“No… Nate, my partner, got it worse. Broke his fingers, toes… he was… he never recovered from it. He was in a care home for a while, and then I heard he took off for Vancouver to work in finance or something. I don’t blame him. You can’t really talk about it – my wife at the time didn’t understand the nightmares and all the mental rubbish that comes with all that. It can ruin a marriage, for sure.”

“Were they caught?”

He stiffens at my tone. Obviously, I didn’t say it as nonchalantly as I imagined I did. “Mycroft.”

“I’m merely asking.”

“Bollocks. Save the innocent ‘who me’ shit for someone who isn’t familiar with a Holmes. I know you want to do something, but don’t. It’s done, and I’m all better. Haven’t had a nightmare in years, and other than the leg cramps if I overdo it, I’m cool.” He pats my stomach, and lays his arm across my waist. “I got a sexy scar out of it.”

“A sexy scar?” I laugh, but I don’t feel any joy in this at all. “You don’t want justice?”

“Honestly, I did while I was recovering. I lost a lot of things, but in the end, I lived to tell the story. And I got a medal out of it.”

“A medal?” I repeat with no small amount of incredulity. “Oh, Gregory… you are a jewel.”

He shifts and looks up at me. “Is that a compliment?”

“It is. Stalwart, brave, and decorated. Such a wonderful candidate for a husband.”

“You’re having me on, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not. I am impressed.” I yawn. “I feel as if I’ve run a marathon.”

“How long had it been since you…” He clears his throat. “Do you get off regularly?”

“Of course not,” I say, adopting a more formal tone. “That is to say… not regularly, but since you and I became, ah, involved, the instances of involuntary arousal have risen.”

“Is that your way of saying you’re thinking about me so much, you can’t help touching yourself?”

“Not at all. I haven’t time for it, and the resulting lethargy is damned inconvenient. I know I’m supposed to be doing something, but I can’t be arsed to move.”

“Good,” he says, pressing a kiss to my side. “Have a nap. Busy evening ahead. You get to explain to the tuxedo chaps why I look like I’ve got mosquito bites all over. And tonight, there’s the stag do.”

“Those bites are barely visible, and there will be no stag do. Well, at least not for me. Go and have a good time.”

“You’re going,” he counters. “We can have a few drinks, and flirt with strange men.”

“No, thank you. I don’t like people, let alone strange ones. I can have a stag do right here in this suite, with champagne , music, and perhaps Father will break his rule and play backgammon with me. Or Sherlock and I can have a game run. I always win at chess, but he’s aces at Operation and Risk.”

“You and Sherlock play board games?”

“Yes. Not as often as we used to, but on occasion, we play to keep up the rivalry.”

“I would have loved to have seen you two as lads,” he laughs. “Little Mikey and Baby Bunny. How precious.”

“Hilarious, you are not. Besides, we haven’t time for a stag do. Mummy wants to see us, and the minister is coming in the morning to see if we’re fit to be married. And you’ve had two stag do’s all ready. That should be enough.”

“You haven’t,” he counters. “Every man should.”

“I can’t. I’m sure Mummy has bogged poor Andrea down with all sorts of insane requests. And I have other matters to attend to. Not answering my phone for the last hour has probably shifted the economy of at least three small countries.”

“Minor position, my arse.”

I roll my eyes and take up my phone. Twelve messages from Mummy, three from Andrea, and a missed call. Dear lord, will this madness end any time soon?

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Tedium. Flotsam. Jetsam. Texts, when the whole world knows I abhor texting. There are days when I wish I could throw my phone in the bin, and run off to the Himalayas.”

“Yeah, all right.” To my surprise, he takes my phone and sets on the table on the other side of the bed. “Have a nap, love. You sound like you could use a bit of a rest.”

“I am not a child, Gregory.” And I sound just like a child.

“I know,” he says gently, “but you’re not thinking clearly right now, and I’d hate for you to give up the nuclear codes or start a war with California.”

“I don’t have any codes, nuclear, or otherwise. And how would that even work, waging war against a single state? Wouldn’t the other states feel obligated to join in? I mean – ”

He cuts me off with a firm kiss. “Lie down, Mycroft. Put your head on my chest and relax. It’ll wear off soon.”

“This is horrid. I can’t focus on anything other than your arse, and how your hand felt on my cock,” I say with a contented sigh. “So very distracting, sex. We should have it again. Right now.”

“Yes, we should. But we’re older, and need sleep. So, close those gorgeous eyes, and hush.”

“Next time, you should suck me off. I’ll bet you can do amazing things with your tongue,” I laugh. “The way it clicks on the top of your mouth when you say certain words is such a bloody turn on…”

He pats my back. “Tomorrow, all right? I’ll suck your cock and say whatever words you want me to say. But right now, I need a nap. Shut up.”

I chuckle at the faux stern tone. “All right, Gregory. Oh, and thanks for the frottage. It was lovely.”

He pulls me closer, mumbling something about ‘chatty bastards’. I settle against him, and close my eyes.

For the first time in a long time, I am content.

***

**_What a fool,_ Mycroft thinks bitterly. _All this time, considering myself above love and feelings, and I’ve been in love with him from the start. And to expect him to go along with my madness is patently unfair of me. We vowed equal sacrifice, and he’s been making all of the concessions._**

**“I’m sorry,” Mycroft says quietly.**

**“Hm?” Greg shifts, but doesn’t wake up.**

**“I am a fool.” Mycroft slides a hand down Greg’s thigh, then back up again. “And here you are, staying here through all this madness. Caring for me, being patient…” He plants a kiss to the back of Greg’s neck, and slides a hand down and slips inside Greg’s pants.**

**“Oi… you really want to wake that monster up? You know once you do, there’s no stopping him.”**

**Mycroft chuckles at that. “I am aware.” He puts a hand to Greg’s lips. “Lick.”**

**“No lotion at hand?” Greg flicks out his tongue and laps at Mycroft’s hand until it’s damp with saliva. “How far you’ve come since the early days. I remember when this would gross you out.”**

**“There are worse things.” Mycroft puts his dampened hand on Greg’s cock, and begins stroking it. “I love giving you pleasure, Gregory.”**

**“Feels nice,” Greg murmurs. “Been a while.”**

**“Yes. Allow me to fix that.”**

**“Gonna be right quick.”**

**“I’ve indulged in my fair share of so-called ‘quickies’ over the course of our marriage, so I can’t judge you.”**

**Greg groans as Mycroft tightens his grips and picks up the pace. “God… that feels so bloody good, Mycroft. Keep going… please…”**

**“I enjoy seeing you like this,” Mycroft says, nipping at Greg’s ear. “Positively wanton… needy…”**

**“Oh, yes,” Greg pants, moving his hips faster. “You’ve got great… oh, my god…squeeze a bit harder, love… that’s it, just like that…”**

**Mycroft responds to the demands by squeezing tighter, moving his hand faster, and licking at Greg’s neck. “If I didn’t have a meeting, I’d be inside you right now, making you scream as you rode my cock,” he whispers. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you…?”**

**“Yes, yes, yes,” Greg hisses. “So close…”**

**“I know. Don’t hold back, Gregory… let me hear how I’m making you feel. You’re dripping all over my hand, you’re so ready. Come for me…”**

**Greg’s hips thrust forward again and again until he tremble and comes with a loud groan of Mycroft’s name. “Jesus… Mycroft…” he pants through the aftershocks of orgasm. “Fuck.”**

**“No time,” Mycroft replies, kissing Greg’s shoulder. He gingerly removes his hand from Greg’s cock, and rolls over to get a wet wipe from the night table. “Perhaps later.” He cleans up quickly and efficiently as Greg lies there, pliant and drowsy. “Lazy bugger, making me do all the work,’ Mycroft teases. “Like a self-indulgent pasha.”**

**“You shouldn’t be so good at it,” Greg mumbles through a series of yawns. “You want me to shove off before your meeting?”**

**“How crass.” Mycroft frowns. “Have your usual post-orgasm doze, and when you’re feeling capable, your case files will be here waiting for you. I’ll be downstairs with the committee.”**

**“Lady Wormwood and her gang?”**

**“Woodward,” Mycroft corrects with a shake of his head. “And you know this.”**

**“She gives me the creeps. Always eyeing me, like she’s imagining me in my pants. Right pervy, that.”**

**“She’d die on the spot if she could see you now,” Mycroft agrees. “Hush, now, and rest. Your clothes are in the wardrobe, and everything you need is in the toilet. I’ll lie here with you for a bit – don’t want to break the sex rules by rushing out of bed.”**

**“Any excuse for you to cuddle up with me,” Greg laughs. He’s quiet for a few minutes, then he nudges a knee between Mycroft’s thighs, and slings an arm around his waist. “I love you so much, Mycroft Holmes. We’ll be all right.”**

**“I know, Gregory Lestrade,” Mycroft says, planting a kiss on Greg’s forehead. “Rest.”**

**As Greg drifts off to sleep, Mycroft pulls him closer, and rubs his back. “And I love you, too. My apologies for taking so long to realise it…”**

**TBC…**

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this bit! More to come soon. Yes, they are getting married, and yes, Mycroft is going to fix them in the present. 
> 
> Questions? Comments? I swear I only bite if you bite me. lyricalsoul@gmail.com. I love talking about Mystrade and writing, and backstories, and whatever. Holla.


	8. And I Panicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's fears bubble to the surface during the fitting, Mummy goes overboard as per, and a talk is had. All in all, a typical interaction between these two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the events in this tale are taken from a real life experience. And remember, the road to love is often rocky, but they are married already. I promise that the wedding is coming soon. Just, muses don't shut up, and you have to go with the flow.

 

**Greg wakes to the sound of voices. It takes a minute to for him to figure where he is, but once he does, he automatically ignores the voices he hears downstairs (the less he hears, the better his chances of being held hostage), and makes his way to the toilet. As promised, Mycroft has made sure that the toiletries Greg usually uses are in place, and that he has clean clothes to change into when he's ready. He gives the sunken tub a wistful look, but knows a quick shower is all he's got time for, and turns the taps on. _Knowing my husband_ , he thinks sourly, _he’s chomping at the bit for me to make a quick exit, so that I don’t hear or see anything or anyone I shouldn’t. Bloody spies…_**

**He steps under the pleasantly heated water, and takes in a lungful of steam. The gentle massage of the shower-head, and the fact that the shower itself is big enough for five or six people reminds him that he's married to money. He doesn't really mind it, mostly, because Mycroft is as discreet as they come. But his creature comforts, like this suite, and his clothes…Greg doesn't begrudge him those things, because no one fills out a pair of bespoke trousers like Mycroft does. But there are times when he just goes overboard, and drama ensues. Even something as simple as trying to get fitted for tuxedos and get married caused a meltdown, drama, and a misunderstanding…**

*******

This is a nightmare.

I am standing on top of what they’re calling a tailor’s stand, in my lounge bottoms and a t-shirt, while the identical twin tailors, Paolo and Pablo, take liberties on my person with fabric and measuring tape, swearing in Spanish, and calling me Gregorio… Who knew getting fitted for a tuxedo would be such a headache?

And then there’s Margaret, standing at my side, holding a tasting party. She’s got trays of hors d'oeuvres, and cake samples, and drinks… I don’t understand why I can’t just tell them what size I wear, and they bring a tuxedo round for me to try on, or why Margaret can’t just choose what we should eat and drink, and leave off. But no… the Holmes way is paved with money and drama.  

“What’s that you’re muttering?” she asks, handing me another square of cake.

“I am not eating another bite of cake. The first one is the one I’ve chosen. White with raspberry, as agreed upon. I don’t care for chocolate cake, and I’m sure not eating carrot cake. Or your cake pops, so put them away.”

“You can’t choose your wedding cake based on one sample, Greg. It just isn’t done.”

“I can, and I have, so, let’s move on to something else, yeah?” A hand taps at my leg, and I look down. “What?”

“Mister Gregorio, if you would please remove your pants so that we can see how these fit you, please.”

“My pants?” I frown down at Pablo, I think. “Why?”

“To try on your tuxedo pants,” he says with a frown of his own. “Am I not speaking clearly?”

“No, no…it’s fine. We call them trousers. Sorry.” I look around the room to make sure no one is paying attention, and then shuck my bottoms. I’ve put on a pair of shorts because I wasn’t too keen on being half-naked in front of Mycroft’s mum and her gang of caterers.

“Dios mío,” Paolo says, frowning. “Did you fall?”

“What?” I look down at my legs to see what he’s referring to. There are a series of thumbprints on my thigh, just above the bottom of my shorts, courtesy of Mycroft’s keen hands. “Oh, that’s… yeah, I fell. I’m all right.”

“You fell?” Margaret looks at my legs with alarm. “Do you need a doctor?”

I shift so she can’t get a good look. “Margaret... please. Let’s just get on with the tasting.”

“From what I can see, it looks serious, Greg. It’s never a good idea to leave such things untreated.”

“Oh, god…” I scrub at my face with my hands, and step into the trousers. Halfway up, and I already know they’re not right. “That’s going to be a bit tight on my, ah…” I give a sideways glance at Margaret. “You’re going to ruin my honeymoon with these, lads. A bit looser, if you don’t mind.”

“It’s slim fit, Mister Gregorio,” Paolo (I think) says with a shy smile. “But if you don’t like them, we’ll go again. Okay, try these.”

I step into another pair, and nod in approval. “Much better, ta.” I can feel a headache starting behind my left eye. Buggering hell, I’m ready to kill someone. “Andrea…”

She looks up from the earrings she’s studying with Roman, the chap who’s in charge of wedding jewelry (for god’s sake), and smiles. “A bit longer, Greg. You’re doing very well.”

“Where’s Mycroft?” I demand.

She lifts an eyebrow. “Working. He’ll be along soon.”

“You said that an hour ago,” I say, and I realise I’m being petulant. “Just… sorry.”

“Give this a go, Greg,” Margaret says, holding out a cracker with some sort of topping. “Tell me what you think.”

“What is it?”

“Steak tartare.”

“Wait… isn’t that raw meat with a raw egg and onions? Not eating that.”

“Greg…”

“Margaret, we discussed this not ten minutes ago. I also moved it to my ‘no’ column on your reception flow chart over there, and sent back a sad face when you texted me. No raw meat, no caviar. I mean it.”

“Mycroft won’t be pleased at the ‘no caviar’ thing, but I’m sure you two will come to an agreement.” She holds out another cracker. “How about this, then? Smoked salmon with lemon-caper sauce.”

I eye the offering carefully, and once I make sure there’s nothing raw on it, I take the cracker and pop it in my mouth. “Not bad.”

“You barely chewed it.”

“Margaret, you promised you wouldn’t do this,” Andrea says. “Go easy, won’t you?”

“Oh, bosh,” Margaret says with a bit of sass. “Time is of the essence. Try the salmon with this wine, Greg.” She holds out a tiny cup of white wine. “It’s a nice Riesling.”

“Yeah, let Mycroft sort it. I don’t like wine. Well, I like it well enough, I just don’t know the difference between them other than colour.”

Margaret laughs. “And you’re marrying the King of Wine? You do know he has a wine bunker underneath that house out in the country, one in his in town flat, and one in his strange club, don’t you? I swear, you two are complete opposites!”

“We’re compatible enough,” I say. “And I don’t not like – bloody hell!”

“Sorry, sir,” Pablo (I hope) says around the pins in his mouth. “You’ve got to hold still while we get the right length, sir.”

“And you have to jab my ankles to do that? Right.”

“It was an accident,” he says with a shrug.

The jeweler bloke…ah, Roman, comes over, holding out his jewelry case. “Which cufflinks, sir?”

I look at the display, filled with all sorts expensive looking cufflinks and tie pins, and shrug. “No idea.”

“May I suggest the mother of pearl?” he says with what looks like a shark’s smile. “They’re quite lovely.”

“Ah, well… I don’t know if –”

Andrea comes over. “I believe Mr. Holmes prefers the blue and silver, Roman. Try them on, Greg.”

“Fine,” I say, and I’ve had enough of this ‘Mr. Holmes prefers’ shite, since he’s not even fussed to be here for all this madness. Working, my arse. “As the lady says, then.”

Paolo brings over a shirt that’s so blindly white and expensive looking, I nearly jump off the stand and run for my life. Shit… “Andrea, this might not be…”

“Try it, Greg,” she says soothingly. “Trust me, it will be fine.”

I strip off to my vest, and glare at her. “You keep saying that. It’s not working.”

“It’s just pre-wedding jitters,” Margaret says chirpily. “Oh… what’s this on your neck?”

“What?”

“All over,” she goes on. “Scratches, bruises… did you fall off a rock?”

“Something like that,” I murmur, refusing to look at anyone. “I’m all right.”

Margaret’s eyes narrow. “It looks like something bit you, Greg.”

“I read that mosquitos in California can be rather vicious.” Lame, I know, but I certainly don’t want to talk to Margaret about how her son turns into a bloody vampire in bed.

Andrea smirks at me, but helps me put on the shirt without comment. “It’s fine, Margaret. Fasten the shirt, Greg.”

Hoping the blush I feel heating my face isn’t too obvious, I button the shirt. And oh, god… I was right. It feels bloody expensive. Soft and silky, and it fits perfectly. “Nice,” is all I can manage, because I’m starting to feel a bit like Cinderella.   

Roman takes my arm, and fastens the cufflink on. “Oh, Andrea, you were right. Exquisite.”

“Mr. Holmes was right,” she corrects. “This will be perfect with your tuxedo, Greg.”

“Try this, Greg,” Margaret says. “It’s rare roast beef with capers and pickled red onion.”

This one’s on toast, so I take it. “Is that horseradish?”

Margaret looks at her notes. “Yes. And I’m told this is bread is from Boudin Bakery.”**

I’m sure that means something, but I’m afraid to ask. “Not fond of rare meat, but all right.” I eat it in one bite, and nod in approval. “Perfect,” I say around the mouthful. “And I love the bread. Go for it.”

“There’s also one with shrimp,” she says, holding out another piece of toast. “With chives, and minced tomatoes.”

“I can’t eat anymore, or I’m going to sick up all over the place. And how much is all this costing? Shrimp and beef and cufflinks and tailors… Mycroft and I agreed we’d keep the cost down since we’re both paying. This has to be expensive.”

“The reception is our gift to you,” Ed says from his seat on the sofa. (I’d forgotten he was there, he’s been so quiet). “And before you balk, we insist. Mycroft getting married is something we never thought we’d see, and so it’s our pleasure to pay, Greg.”

“But –” I start, but the jeweler chap has taken hold of my other arm to clip the second cufflink on, and Pablo (I think) has got my foot, and is shoving it in a shoe. I look down, which causes me to lose my balance. I wobble, and reach out for something to hold on to, but Margaret has stepped to the side, and before I can stop myself, I’m falling backward off of the stand, and straight on my arse.

“Bloody fucking hell!” I yell, after I’ve caught my breath.

“Oh, Mister Gregorio,” someone who I think is Paolo says with concern, “are you hurt?”

“All right. That’s enough of all this,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Are you all right?” Roman asks, lifting my arm to check that the cufflink is still clamped on.

“Go away,” I say wearily.

“But, sir, we’ve….”

“Go. Away. Now.”

They look helplessly at Andrea, and move over to the other side of the room.

Andrea looks down at me. “All right?”

“No. And before you start, don’t. I’m not doing all this. All I want to do is get married to the man I love, and you lot are tuning it into a reality show. All this is… it’s too much. And hell… I’ve not told my mum, my gran, and I’ve got no one to stand with me. This is a mistake.”

Of course Mycroft and Sherlock walk in just as I’m saying that last bit.

“I told you he’d back out, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, sounding very gleeful. Shit.

Mycroft looks down at me with a frown. “What’s happened? Why are you on the floor?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” I snap. “Help me up.”

He blinks at my tone, but takes my outstretched hand and helps me stand. “Explain.”

I dust myself off, and refuse to meet his eyes. “Nothing to explain. I just... this is too much. I need some air.”

“You can’t go off with your trousers dragging the ground and one shoe on,” Margaret says, taking my arm. “Let’s get you over to the sofa, Greg. Would you like a drink? A coke, or ginger ale?”

“I don’t –”

“Now, now… don’t argue,” she cuts in. “Sit down, and let them finish hemming the trousers, all right? They can do it with you sitting, can’t they?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Paolo (or whoever he is) says, moving over with his tape measure. He removes the shoe, and sets it aside. “I’m very sorry for making you fall, Mister Gregorio.”

“It’s all right,” I sigh. “Just… go easy, please.”

“Yes, of course, sir.” He kneels down, and gets back to work while Pablo (maybe) speaks softly into his mobile.

“Mikey,” Margaret says, “come and join us, won’t you?”

“It’s Mycroft, as you well know.” But, he comes over and sits stiffly beside me. “Are you all right, Gregory?”

“Just the makings of a headache. It’ll pass.”

“You, ah… you were saying you… have you changed your mind?”

Something in his tone – uncertainty, maybe – makes me look at him. “Mycroft, I’m just frustrated. But I do need to tell my mum and my gran.”

“Maybe if you tell them when you get back to London, it will be better,” Margaret says, her tone easy and gentle. “Maybe they can come with you to the register’s office when you make it official. No need in worrying them about you being out here in California, with no one to stand with you. You do know Father will be your best man, don’t you, Greg?”

“Be my pleasure,” Ed says with a grand smile. “Sherlock can help me prepare a speech, won’t you, son?”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock says with an evil glint in his eyes.

“Ta, Ed,” I say with a small smile. “It’s just… I guess it just hit me, who I’m marrying.”

“What do you mean?” Mycroft asks, sounding as serious as I’ve ever heard.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but… you’re bloody rich, Mycroft. All this is… fine wine and caviar and bespoke clothes - it's normal to you. All my shirts have buttons because I have a hard time putting on cufflinks. I don’t know which wine to choose, and I hate caviar. I don’t even know where you live – how am I going to change my address at work? It’s funny to everyone, but it matters. Even your mum thinks we’re too different.”

Margaret pats my hand. “You’re panicking, but that’s natural. Ed, remember when we ran off and got married? You nearly fainted standing up to my father. Don’t worry, Greg… whatever differences you and Mikey have will all work out.”

“Or they won’t, but it won’t matter,” Ed chimes in. “There are hundreds of things me and Mother don’t agree on, but we’ve learned to choose our battles. And by the way, that shirt and cufflinks are brilliant together, Greg. Mycroft has good taste.”

I sigh and look at the cufflinks and the shirt. And damn, he’s right. Bloody expensive clothes. “My family… I’ve not told anyone that I’m… that I, erm… fancy blokes. What if they’re… they could turn their backs on me. I’m not ready for that.”

“Well, you certainly picked a fine time to get cold feet, Gavin,” Sherlock says with a snort of derision. “Sorry, Mother… looks like Mycroft will die a spinster after all.”

“Oh, shut it, Sherlock,” Margaret snaps, and to my delight, Sherlock flops down in the chair, and turns away. “Greg’s just got a case of nerves. He’ll be fine, won’t you, love?”

“If he doesn’t want this, I won’t force it,” Mycroft says. He stands, and tugs his waistcoat down. “I need to make a call. If you will excuse me…?” Head high, he walks out to the terrace, banging the French doors closed.

“Shit.” I stand up and look down at my clothes. “Erm… I won’t be a minute.”

“Mister Lestrade,” Roman says, “those cufflinks are worth –”

“It will be fine,” Andrea says sharply. “Greg…”

“I’ve got it, Andrea. Back in a tick.” I give a quick nod, and go out to the terrace.

Mycroft blows a line of smoke upward as I step out on the terrace and close the doors.

“I figured you’d be out here smoking,” I say, stepping up next to him. “Thought you had a call?”

“Done with it.” He flicks the cigarette over the wall, and stares out at the water, eyes narrowed. “Your Kirby is out there surfing.”

“He’s not my anything. And what… you’re doing mind tricks so that he falls off his board and drowns?”

“Heavens, no. That would only make him a tragic figure for you to mourn.”

“Your jealousy over this imagined relationship isn’t as cute as you think, Mycroft.”

“Sometimes insecurity masquerades as jealousy,” he says quietly.

Buggering hell. “Oh, love… there’s no reason to be insecure.”

“I have been advised that there are no fewer than fifty reasons, Gregory.” He turns to me, and shrugs. “I am under no illusions about that.”

“I know it was Sherlock, and you’re usually better at ignoring him.” I put a hand on his shoulder and squeeze. “I’m sorry for panicking. I want nothing more. It’s just… you and your family being so well-to-do makes me nervous. I feel like I can’t measure up, and when I feel that way I want to run.”

“I understand.” He shakes out another cigarette, and lights it with a fancy lighter, and damn if that’s not sexy as hell, even if it proves my point. “And I’ll also understand if you’ve changed your mind.”

With a frustrated groan, I take the cigarette from him, and have a long drag. “Part of the attraction is that you’re a proper genius. Don’t be dense.”

“I’m not accustomed to anyone being attracted to me, or the emotional upheaval that comes with… being part of a couple. Or with marrying someone.” He takes the cigarette back, and has a draw on it. “My automatic response is to withdraw.”

“Right, so two peas in a pod, then.” I sigh heavily. “I just want to marry you, and be with you, but it comes with a lot of… stuff. I haven't stopped to consider the whole package."

“Stuff?” He sounds like he’s smelled something foul, and is doing that blinking rapidly thing again. “What do you mean?”

“Your parents, Andrea, Sherlock, tailors and cufflinks, and expensive suites at the beach, Mycroft. It’s all so normal to you, you don’t think about it. What do I have to offer you? I’ve been thinking about it, and there isn’t anything I have in my flat, on my person, or in my life that I can give you that you don’t already have, or can’t get. What good am I, if I can’t even manage to make you smile?”

“Some things are intangible. Your willingness to accept me as I am has made me smile on many occasions since we embarked on this joint venture. When I walked in, and you were saying that you couldn’t do this, I experienced a disappointment I haven’t felt in a long time. It was as if my heart shattered into a million pieces just in that split second. That’s never happened to me before, Gregory. I need you to know that, need you to know that I’ve never done this before, nor will I do it again. If you choose not to continue, it will affect me greatly.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” He flicks the ashes off the cigarette. “Wealth is… well, it has its privileges, or so the saying goes. To be perfectly honest with you, I am not ashamed of anything I have or anything I can do that makes life more comfortable for me, and for those in under my care.”

“Not saying that you should be. I’m not poor… but compared to you –”

“Then don’t compare yourself to me!” he snaps. He lets out a breath, and clears his throat. “Ah… yes, well, apologies for my tone. I simply want to you to know that everything I have is yours, Gregory, if you want it. What does it matter if we eat at home or at a nice restaurant or at one of your haunts? If we’re both content, it shouldn’t matter at all. It’s up to you as to whether or not it’s an issue.”

I shake my head, and take the cigarette. Getting married twice before was a bloody picnic compared to all this. “I know all that. But just… it all seems so one-sided to me. You get to choose the clothes and the cufflinks, and your mum is in charge of the food and there’s wine, and I just don’t fit in. So, just tell me what you’re getting out of this, Mycroft. Something tangible.”

Twin spots of colour appear on his cheeks, but he meets my eyes without flinching away. “You.”

“Me?” I laugh.

“Yes. I am aware that you think yourself ‘no prize’, which is utterly ridiculous, because you are. Your fire, your loyalty, your acceptance of Sherlock, of my parents, of the things you know about me, and care despite that… all those things make me exceedingly fond of you. And honestly, I never imagined that a man like you – extremely desirable – would want anything to do with me. But you do, and now that I have you, now that I’ve kissed you and felt how it can be between us, the only way I am letting you go is for you to walk away.”

“I had no idea, Mycroft,” I say gently.

“Then you see, but do not observe.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“That just proves my point that you are horrible at listening.”

 We both have a chuckle at that.

“I need you to understand what this is,” he continues, “and what me doing this means. And that’s not me saying I’m making some great and noble sacrifice to be with you; not that at all. I am well out of my depth, but I want to continue, because I want you. And I am willing to accept that being with you comes with many, many changes. I abhor change, but I am going to try. For you, Gregory.”

“I, ah… well, I thought you could take me or leave me. I mean, you did run from me.”

“We’ve settled that, so if you’re just looking for an excuse to leave because you’ve changed your mind, look me in the eye and say ‘I don’t want this, Mycroft’, and I’ll send you back to London. Otherwise, we’re not doing any more of this wavering… thing… again. It wreaks havoc on my mental processes.”

“Sorry about that. I’ve only married birds, ah… women before, and this is a bit intimidating for me. Not the sexuality part, because I’ve always known that I fancied both men and women. But that I’m not in charge.” I shrug. “Being the breadwinner, the protector, the head of the home… I don’t have any of that with you, and it scares me a bit. What if you get tired of me, and I’ve gotten used all this? That would be horrible, and the thought of it makes me sick to my stomach.”

“I can’t predict the future –”

“If anyone could,” I cut in with a small smile.

“Clairvoyance is not my forte, Gregory. I have no interest in knowing the future.”

“Only controlling it.”

“Needs must.” He sends a ring of smoke upward. “I can’t control you. I’ve tried many, many times, but you always thwart me.”

“Because you don’t know how to ask, Mycroft.” I take the cigarette from him, and have a puff. “You just do, and it rankles.”

“Asking wastes precious time,” he counters, wrinkling his nose. “It’s easier to apologise afterward.”

“Let’s not do that. If you ask me what I want, or to help you, chances are, we can work it out.”

“You’re saying I should have asked you about our formalwear?” He rolls his eyes and takes his cigarette back. “You have no idea of the logistics of the minutiae that goes into planning a ‘quickie’ wedding, Gregory. I am not, nor will I ever be the sort to just pop into the register’s office, and the sooner you come to terms with that, the better. I am, for lack of a better words, a man of means, and I like the ability to just do things with those means. If you have issue with that, we should come to some sort of agreement.”

“One that doesn’t involve me tossing you off this terrace in about two seconds?” I ask through gritted teeth. “Because I don’t like how this is going.”

“It’s only going this way because you enjoy being contrary,” he says, taking a step closer to me. “Gregory, I’m asking that you try to accept me as I am. I will try to do the same. And as far as our combined household goes, we can have a contract drawn up. How we share expenses, et cetera. Not equal giving, but equal sacrifice.”

I frown. “Like how?”

“Well, for example, we can say that, ah… thirty percent of our incomes can be contributed to a mutual account to take care of shared expenses, such as food, and other incidentals… couples… share.” Again with the wrinkling of his nose. “As I have always lived alone, I leave that to you to decide.”

“Really?” I know I sound skeptical, but I’m not sure if I like that. “You’re not… you don’t mind that kind of arrangement?”

“Of course not,” he says, frowning at the cigarette. “I want you to be happy. I have no idea what that entails as far as all this is concerned, but I am not above trying for your sake.”

“I appreciate that, Mycroft,” I say with a big grin. “I really do.”

“And so…?”

I look at him, taking it all in. His brilliantly blue eyes, the dusting of freckles across his nose, the way his hair curls around his collar when it needs cutting, and the firm set of his lips when he’s determined… the whole package is so bloody attractive, I have no idea why no one has claimed him before now. I take in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “It’s going to take some getting used to, but I’m willing to give it a go, if you’re really serious about us getting married tomorrow. Hell, I’d marry you right here on this terrace this minute, if you say so.”

He laughs and blows smoke directly in my face. “How gauche. Your trousers aren’t hemmed properly, and you’re not wearing any shoes.”

“This would fall under the ‘for worse’ part of the vows,” I say with a chuckle. “You’re so fancy, Mycroft.”

“And you aren’t. It seems you were right, and opposites do, at times, attract.”

“Like magnets.” I step closer, and put my hands on his waist. “I love touching you, though. Love how you feel, how you smell… mmm…”

“Are you two out here smoking?”

I jump away from Mycroft at Margaret’s sharp tone, and stifle a giggle as he discreetly tosses the cigarette over the wall. “Uh, no, ma’am,” I say with solemnly. “Just hammering out the details.”

She looks at us both, her eyes like lasers as she takes in everything. Reminds me of Sherlock when he’s on the scent. Thank goodness for the sea breeze blowing the smoke away. “And you’re good? Still getting married?”

“We are,” Mycroft says with a smile in my direction.

“Good. Roman is about to have kittens over his sapphire cufflink, Mikey, you need to choose a wine, and Greg, I need you to finish tasting canapes. So get your arses back in here.” She gives us another look and goes back inside.

“Is she always so bossy?” I ask, planting a quick kiss on his lips.

He kisses me back. “This is mild. Imagine her at Christmas, with Sherlock.”

I shudder at that. “God help me, who am I marrying? And did she say these cufflinks are sapphires?”

“She did. They’re my birthstone.”

“That’s…ah… in…?” I cringe at the fact that I have no idea. “May?”

“Ace detective work,” he mocks. “September. I’m wearing mother of pearl cufflinks for your June birth date.”

“How did you…” I trail off at his lifted eyebrow. What doesn’t he know. “Sapphires are expensive.”

“Not really,” he says with a smile, and another kiss. He puts his hands on my shoulders. “It’ll be fine, Gregory. And you can use Skype to speak with your mother, if it will make you feel better to tell her before we return home.”

“I’ll wait. Some conversations are better face to face.” I can’t imagine that my mum will disown me for marrying a bloke, but I know there will be some type of fallout for not being honest about myself. Not looking forward to that conversation at all. “I might need you to help me with setting up that talk at a fancy place.”

“With pleasure.”

“You say that now, but you’ll need to meet my mum and Gran, you know.”

His eyes narrow, but he nods. “Of course. Perhaps tea at Mason and Fortnum?”

“Oh, my mum would love that,” I say, falling for him just a bit more. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

“I did, and no, I’m not going to tell you how. I will, however, advise you that we are having a ‘rehearsal dinner’ at the steakhouse near the pier in approximately three hours.”

“Mycroft…”

“Not my doing, but if you would like to tell Mummy no, go right ahead.”

“I wonder if marrying Kirby would be this much trouble?”

“I think it is extremely difficult to marry a corpse, but let’s not dwell on the details.”

“Mycroft…” I’m repeating myself, but he does that to me.

He leans in and nuzzles my neck. “Yes, Gregory…?”

I push at him, and take a step back. “Oh, no, you ruddy vampire. I’ve already had to say I got these marks from a fall. You’re not adding more, so keep your fangs to yourself.”

He presses a kiss to my neck, and pulls away. “Fine. Remember this later, when you’re begging me to bite you.”

“I don’t beg,” I say with more than a hint of indignation. “I asked you. Nicely.”

“Well, if you call saying ‘oh my god, Mycroft’ asking nicely, so be it.”

I blush at that, and duck my head. “All right, then. Back inside. Though I think it’s a bit unfair that you don’t have to get fitted.”

“That is the beauty and convenience of bespoke clothing,” he says in that haughty tone of his. “Measurements at the ready. Hopefully, you’ll consider having a few suits made.”

“Too fancy for me. But I love that you’re so posh and well-dressed. Even now, in just your shirt and trousers, you’re just absolutely gorgeous, Mycroft.” I put my hands on his waist and pull him flush against me. “We fit together perfectly, yeah?”

“We do.” His arms go around my neck, and he smiles at me. “Kiss me, Gregory.”

“No,” I say, taking a step back. “I can’t be hard and finish getting fitted. And your mum is in there. She’ll know.”

“How grade school of you,” he sighs, and drops his arms. “Come on, then. There’s wine to choose, and Mummy is going to convince you to eat that steak tartare.”

“No.”

“I’m a Holmes, and I know things.”

Before I can stop myself, I turn and kiss him again. There’s no heat behind the kiss; it’s gentle and easy, and just a means to wipe that smug grin off his face. I pull away, and rest my forehead against his. “No.”

“Interesting attempt to win an argument.” He licks his lips. “You should do that often.”

“Since you’re going to be contrary often, I probably will. You have great lips,” I say, nipping at his bottom lip. “Kissable as fuck.”

“How crass. But thank you for the compliment.”

The way he ducks his head and looks up at me… Christ, how am I going to get through a whole day without getting him back in that bed and having my way with him? I love how responsive he is, how sensual, and open to pleasure. And his hands…

“Gregory…”

I blink at his tone and shake myself out of my musings. “What?”

“Not that I want to stop the natural progression of such naughty thoughts, but we have business to finish. I hate that hem, and must have a word with Paolo post haste. It should allow for a slight break on top of the shoe. And they didn’t measure whilst you were wearing braces.”

Well, that’s one way to kill an erection. “I’ll bow to your expertise on the subject, I suppose.” I frown. “Wait… you can tell them apart?”

“Of course,” he says, with an eye roll, the smug bastard. “Pablo has a slight overbite, and his hair his tousled upward. Paolo’s teeth are frighteningly straight and white, and his hair, while also tousled upward, is styled slightly to the right.”

“Oh, well, I don’t know how I didn’t see all that,” I say dryly.  

“I’m certain that daily exposure to a Holmes will improve your deductive eye.”

“Or something,” I say, giving him a leering up and down look.

“Incorrigible. Come along, Gregory. We haven’t even gotten to the jacket yet, and I’ve got to compare notes.”

“God help me,” I mutter, and now my hopes that the rest of this madness will go smoothly takes a nosedive right into the sea. Him comparing notes and being persnickety is most certainly going to make this a horrible thing for me. “Mycroft…”

“I won’t cause too much bother. I just want to ensure that you look as I fantasised you would.” He looks away, but I can see the blush on his cheeks. “Indulge me?”

“How can I not with you blushing and being all coy and such,” I say with a smile. “I’ll grin and bear it, if it’ll make your fantasy come true. Maybe I’ll get a reward.”

“You will be handsomely rewarded. And thank you in advance for being so cooperative.” He plants a quick kiss on my lips, and goes back inside.

I laugh at that, and follow, knowing that I’m headed into to total chaos.  God help me.

 

TBC…

 

**Boudin Bakery is a bakery based in San Francisco, California. Established in 1849, the bakery’s bread is highly sought after, and they are renowned for (among other things) still using the same starter yeast-bacteria culture it developed during the California Gold Rush. This gives their bread a distinct, and somewhat unique sourdough taste.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as usual to Edenlost, and to Mystrade lovers everywhere. Thanks for the patience, love, and kudos you all give me. I really appreciate it. 
> 
> The title is a song by The Dramatics. The lyrics don't really fit (if you're googling), but the title does, and it's all I got.


	9. My Baby Loves Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding day! Greg gets a surprise visitor, Sherlock gives gifts, and we learn a bit about the Lestrade boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we're one chapter away from the actual event! That should be coming in the next week, hands willing.
> 
> The chapter title is a song by Martha Reeves and the Vandellas (of Dancing in the Street and Heat Wave fame.) Yay, Motown! It is also the song Greg is "singing" in the beginning. 
> 
> Thanks, as always to Edenlost, my best bestie, who keeps me sane. And to Mystrade lovers all over - you are the wind beneath my writing wings! Thank you for everything - kudos, comments, shares on Tumblr - all of it is much appreciated.

**“My baby loves me… oh, yeah…” Greg warbles as he tosses the towel aside, and pulls on his pants. “My baby needs me…oh, yeah…”**

**Socks on. “No other guy can whisper sweet things in my ear…” Vest, deodorant, and shirt. “My sweetie pie has the only voice I hear…” Shirt buttoned. “…so clear…” Trousers on, shirt tucked. “’cause I know he needs me… oh, yeah…” Greg prances over to the closet, grabs his belt, and loops it on. “I will never, ever give my baby no trouble…” He frowns at the tie Mycroft has laid out for him, but shrugs. “Whenever he calls, I come running on the double…” Half-Windsor, tie pin. “Because he loves me… oh, yeah…” Cufflinks in pocket. “…he told me he needs me… oh, yeah…” He slides over to the sink, picks up his hairbrush, and holds it up to his mouth. “Can’t seem to see no other handsome face…” He sings into the brush. He follows this up with a hip dip, and arse shake. “There’s no cute substitute can take my baby’s place…” Brush through hair, followed by a good dollop of gel. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah…” Jacket on, lapels smoothed into place. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah…”****

**Greg bows to his reflection in the mirror. “Thank you… thank you very much.”**

**_I doubted he’d ever come to love me back then, Greg thinks with a broad smile. But I was stupid, because despite his protests to being above it all, he loved me all along. I mean, he managed to surprise me on the day of our wedding, giving me something I was yearning for. Sometimes it pays to know someone who knows someone…_ **

**_***_ **

Four o’clock, wedding day.

 

“…you have the most gorgeous hair I’ve ever had the pleasure of cutting, Greg. A dream, is what it is. If you’re ever back in California, please look me up. I’d love to have you model at a hair show for me.”

I blush at the hair stylist’s words, and discreetly hold out a few bills. “Thank you, Nico.”

“Oh, gods,” he gushes, “aren’t you just! It’s all been taken care of, but thank you for offering. I’ve left a basket of goodies for you in the bathroom. Just a little of the gel, a little zhoushing, and you’ll be good to go.”

“You’re too kind,” I say, and open the door of the suite. “I feel like a million pounds, er, dollars.”

“Look like it, too,” he says with a cheeky grin. “Your husband is a lucky man, if you don’t think I’m overstepping by saying so.” He brushes past me with a smile. “Enjoy your wedding day, Mr. Lestrade.”

“Thanks.” I close the door, and let out a sigh of contentment at being shined and polished for the second time this weekend. Hair trimmed, glossed, and spiked up a bit (Mycroft seems to like it that way), and a hot towel shave. I feel like a new man.

Not bad looking, I think as I eye myself in the mirror. A cold cucumber treatment on my eyes has reduced the evidence of my sleepless night, and a massage with hot stones has melted away the stress I was feeling in my shoulders and neck.

I sit down on the bed, ignoring the tuxedo and all the trimmings waiting on the rack in front of me. Half an hour until I’m to be married, and god help me, I’m terrified. Not of being married to Mycroft, of course, just… this whole thing makes me nervous.

We met with the minister this morning over breakfast, and before today, I was under the impression that Mycroft is opposite to Sherlock when it comes to deductions and such, in that he mostly keeps his observations to himself and doesn’t feel the need to blurt out someone’s secrets like a tosser.

How stupid of me.

For some reason, Kaye, the minister, brought out the worst in him, with her questions about love and relationships, and he let loose with a string of deductions that had her in tears. And refusing to marry us, because she didn’t want to see a nice chap like me bound to ‘evil incarnate’. It took an intervention by Margaret to convince her that Mycroft was a good son, and would be a good husband to me.  

Mycroft apologised, and bribed his way back in to her good graces by somehow managing to produce an all-expenses paid trip to Hawaii, where she’d always wanted to go.

At the end of it all, we signed the marriage license, and for all intents and purposes, we’re legally bound in America. And maybe England, but I’m leaving that for him to sort.

I suppose it’s a big deal, that I’ve managed to marry Mycroft as I’d been hoping to do since Valentine’s Day, but I can’t help but be a bit put out that no one from my family is about to share the day with me. Hell, at this point, I’ll even take Gordon, and no one gets on with him, the bastard.

Well… nothing to be done about it now. If they don’t disown me for marrying a bloke, we’ll have a grand time with the London do. Nothing like a Lestrade do, truth be told. Lots of liquor, and good food. Not that I’m not enjoying the Holmes way of doing things, but it will be refreshing to have a regular party that I can actually afford.

There’s a hard knock on the door, and I sigh. Must be the valet Mycroft enlisted to ‘help me dress’. Like I can’t dress myself. We went back and forth about it for the better part of the morning, but when he digs his expensive heels in, there’s no moving him. He owes me for this one. 

I wrench the door open, and step back in surprise as my brother, Grant, enters the room in full military dress, hat under his arm, rucksack on his shoulder.

“Surprise,” he says with a big grin. He tosses his hat on the table, and drops his bag at his feet. “Heard you needed some help putting on your fancy trousers.”

“Grant? What the hell?”

“Heya, Egg. I heard you were in need of a valet. And a best man.”

I pull him into a hug and squeeze him tightly. “Oh, god…” My voice is cracking, and I feel tears welling up in my eyes. “I… what are you doing here?”

“Getting my medals squished and my shoulder wet from your bloody tears. Let me go, you tosser.”

I wipe my eyes on the sleeve of my dressing gown, and move back, holding him at arm’s length. “Look at you, all shined up. And you’re really here to stand with me? How’d this happen?”

“I’ve been told that your bloke set it up as a surprise for you. But it’s a bit strange because of the way he pulled it off.”

“How do you mean?” I ask, hoping Mycroft didn’t send a fighter jet or black helicopter to pluck Grant off his ship. I wouldn’t put it past him, but I’d consider that an abuse of power.

“Yesterday, just as I was about to go off duty, the watch commander stopped me, and told me I’d been assigned to deliver a top secret package to a top secret location. Came in by a special transport, was met at the air field by some black suited types, and brought here by a car that seemed to have carte blanche for traffic lights, because we didn’t stop for anything once we left. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life – Anthea, she said – met me in the lobby, and explained what was what. I was introduced to your fiancé, which was a surprise, since I hadn’t heard that you were getting married, and I just spoke with you a few weeks ago. And by the way, your fiancé… Mycroft, right? He’s got the scariest eyes and smile I’ve ever seen.”

“Mycroft isn’t… well, yeah. He can’t help it. I don’t think his eyes are scary, though. Just blue. Like the sky. Or the sea, maybe. God, so blue…”

“Reel it in, Romeo,” he laughs. “His eyes are right scary. I mean, his smile was fake, but his eyes are sharp, like he knows everything about me. He didn’t say anything off, you know, but he looks like he could make me disappear in the blink of an eye.”

“Sounds about right.” I smile at him, and drop my arms. “I can’t believe he did this. I don’t even know how he knew I was closer to you than am I to Gabe or Gordy, to choose you over them, because I’ve never really even mentioned you, besides naming the lot of you when he asked me on our first date. I’m chuffed that you’re here.”

“We’ve been bessie mates since I was born,” he says with a large smile that’s so like my own. “You were four, and thought you could have me sleeping in your bed, as Mum tells it.”

“She exaggerates,” I laugh. “I just didn’t understand why they’d put another baby in that jail bed.”

“What a moron.”

“Says the chap who believed in Father Christmas until he went off to the navy.”

We both have a laugh at that.

“So, just who is this chap, Egg? He must be important…?”

“I’m fifty, and you’re still going to call me Egg?”

“Not my fault yours is the only nickname that stuck.”

“I haven’t call you Ant Man since you were around seven. Fair is fair.”

“So, what you’re saying is that your fancy man doesn’t know your family calls you Egg?”

“Tosser,” I say, and ruffle his hair. “Nice cut.”

“Can’t deliver special docs without a fresh cut.” He eyes me suspiciously. “You gonna dish about your soon to be husband, or make me guess?”

“He’s just a minor government official,” I hedge.

“My arse,” he scoffs. “Greg, only the Prince or the First Sea Lord can pull a naval officer off an active ship. So, your bloke is much more than a minor government chap. What gives?”

“To be honest, the less I know, the better. I will say that I think he’s MI-something, and does freelancing for every intelligence agency in existence. He’s right brilliant, and probably has the Queen on speed dial.”

“And he’s marrying you? Damn, the Lestrade appeal gets stronger with age, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, shut it,” I say with a laugh. “I love him, and he’s… coming around to it.”

“That sounds like all your other marriages. What makes this one different?”

“He’s different. He gets me in a way that no one else has. We want the same things, and unlike the others, there’s no way he’s going to let me go.” I shift my gaze away, unsure just how much I should tell him. But, he’s right; we’ve been best mates since he was born, and I trust him with my life. “There’s more… I mean, it’s not the main reason I’m marrying him, but… well, he’s new to it all, Grant. Never been married, never…. any of it.”

“I haven’t been married, so that’s not really an indicator.”

“Never had any one. Ever. And don’t you breathe a word of this to anyone, Grant. He’ll kill us for embarrassing him. He’s very private about certain things.”

“I wouldn’t, Egg. I swear. But… seriously? No one?”

“No.” And I’m glad to be able to tell someone. “I’m the first person to kiss him, to touch him… to… well, we haven’t… but when the time comes, I’ll be the first for that, too.”

“Was he… why? He’s my age, yeah?”

“Yeah. But, you’ve got to know… the Holmeses… they’re different. They don’t feel or experience things like normal people. He’s never really been interested in anyone… well, not like this. And now that he’s open to it, he’s like one of those animals that mate for life.” And because the thought of being tied to Mycroft for life doesn’t terrify me as much as it did this morning, I smile. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, Grant. There wasn’t a natural progression from lust to like to dating to love… it just hit us hard and fast, and I don’t want to miss the chance to have what I need to be content. Do you get it?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and I’m terrified that he doesn’t get it, and will walk off. “Yeah,” he says with a big smile, “I get it, you berk.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “You know I’ve got your back, no matter what, and you know I’ll try my best to kill him should he hurt you. What did Mum say?”

I grimace at that. “Haven’t told her yet.”

“Oh my god, Greg. Are you insane?”

“Probably.”

“Mum’s gonna murder you, and Gran will never make you another Chelsea bun as long as you live. Why haven’t you told them? Damn, Greer is gonna kick your arse for keeping it secret.”

“I know, I know… It all happened so fast. And I’m terrified that they won’t be as cool with it as you... well, as I hope you are.” I look at him. “You’re not fussed by him being a bloke, are you?”

“Are you?”

“Fuck no,” I say sharply. “I am bloody mad for him. That he’s a man isn’t important. Well, it’s important, but not in that sense. I haven’t sent out broadcasts about being bi-sexual, but I’m not ashamed of what I am, either.”

“I knew you were bi,” he says with a smile. “You used to hang out at that club, and I know you’ve dated guys, so calm the hell down.”

“Right.” I let out a sigh. “Mum doesn’t know anything about me liking blokes, and I’m sure Gran doesn’t either. I’m not sure how they’ll react to me marrying a bloke, you know? They could kick me out of the family. I’m not ready for that.”

“Mum and Gran? You’ve got to be joking? Mum went to Pride last year. And Gran loves Stephen Fry.”

“It’s another thing for it to be your own son,” I shoot back.

“Yeah, but I think you’re worrying for nothing. Mum and Gran love you to death, and you know none of us will have anything bad to say. Well, there’s Gordon, but he doesn’t like anything or anyone, so he doesn’t count.”

“I hope you’re right. My saving grace is that we’ve got to make it legal back home. I’ll invite them to be witnesses when we pop over to the register’s office, and then have a small do, with the Lestrades and a few friends.”

“He’s rich, then, this Mycroft?”

“Resourceful, is what we’re calling it, but yeah. Bloody rich as fuck… I mean, look around.”

“I wondered, but didn’t want to pry. How are you dealing with that? I know how prideful you get about being the man… you know, bringing home the bacon, and all that macho stuff.”

“I have my moments,” I admit with a sigh. “This all happened so quickly, we’ve barely had time to really get to know each other. But the good thing is that we talk it out. It’s still early days, so baby steps.”

Before he can reply, the door opens and Sherlock bounds in. “I am on fire! I solved the case, and the criminal is now in the custody of the police.” He stops, and frowns at Grant. “What on earth have you done to your hair, Gordon?”

“What?” Grant asks, looking at me with confusion. “I’m not Gordon. Who are you?”

“Oh, bloody hell, Sherlock,” I groan.  

In true Sherlock fashion, he ignores us. “Does Mycroft know you’ve allowed the barber to give you a military cut? It does you justice, but he won’t be pleased at the ruin of his fantasy. For some reason, he prefers your hair shiny and grey, and spiked up in front. Among other things.”

I make a note to bring that fantasy thing up with Mycroft, and step up next to Grant. “And does Mycroft know that you can tell the time of a murder by how far a feather has sunk into a knob of butter, but you can’t tell that you’re talking to the wrong Lestrade?”

He squints at me, then at Grant. “Ah, yes… you must be one of the brothers. Now that I’m actually paying attention, I can see that there are subtle differences, such as the lack bags under his eyes, less grey hair, and he definitely weighs less.”

“Yeah, whatever. At any rate, Sherlock… this is my brother, Grant. Grant, Sherlock Holmes… you know, the consulting detective I’ve told you about? Well, he’s also Mycroft’s brother and all around thorn in our sides.”

Grant sticks out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Sherlock. When you have a free moment, I’d really love to talk to you about the case at Baskerville. I found it very fascinating, but I can’t help but think that Doctor Watson left out some important details.”

Sherlock eyes him warily, but if there’s one thing he can’t resist, it’s flattery about his work. He shakes Grant’s hand, and gives him the deductive look. “Younger by… five years, unmarried, career naval officer, incredibly bright, and ambitious. Impressive, considering your lineage.”

“Younger by four years, but as you’ve been noted as saying, there’s always something.” Grant turns to me with a frown. “He thinks you’re not bright?”

“Well, I could have deduced the ‘career naval officer’ part, since you’re in uniform, so take what he says with a grain of salt. And he’s a tosser most of the time,” I laugh. “But we’re family now, and I promised not to kill him.”

“Shouldn’t you be dressed, Lestrade?” Sherlock is still staring at Grant with the patented Holmes curiosity. “You’ve signed the license, so there’s no turning back. Mycroft prides himself on being punctual, and is most likely already dressed and waiting for you at the altar, or whatever you’re going to be standing in front of.”

“We’re going to be standing in front of a minister, who is also a justice of the peace. And I wasn’t planning on turning back, you git.” I think of Mycroft, all poshed up in his tuxedo, pacing around his room, waiting for me, and I smile. “Erm… how does he look?”

“Oh, not this love-sick mooning thing again,” he groans, and stalks away to flop on the sofa.

“Your chap looks positively gorgeous. And his assistant says he’s nervous, too,” Grant says with a smile at me. “Come on now, let’s get you dressed.”

“You’re really going to be my valet?” I ask as he pushes me down on the bed and hands me the socks.

“Fuck no, but if I don’t help you, you’ll just sit here, staring at the ceiling. Or worse, you’ll faint like you did when you graduated police school, or whatever the hell you call it.”

“I didn’t faint,” I defend over Sherlock’s chuckling. “It was hot, and my ceremonial uniform is about twenty thousand kilos of wool. I got woozy.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

I pull on the socks, and frown at how they look a bit like women’s hosiery. Bloody posh git and his posh socks. Thankfully, there’s no garter. “I need a cigarette.”

“No,” Sherlock says, and I notice that he’s dressed in a tuxedo with slim fitting trousers that make his legs go on for miles. “Have a nicotine patch.”

“Thanks.” I snatch the patch and slap it on my forearm. “You look… ah, that’s a nice… oh, my god… I’m getting married.”

“Come on, Egg… don’t hyperventilate. Head down, and breathe.”

I put my head between my knees and take a huge gulp of air. “What if he doesn’t… he could do a runner. Or there could be a major catastrophe, and he’d have to go and save earth or stop aliens or –”

“Aliens?” Grant repeats. “That’s crazy. Are you sure you’re not on drugs or summat?”

“He’s just being stupid,” Sherlock says. “Well, you can’t help being stupid, as it’s your nature, but my over-bloated brother is just a besotted with you as you are with him. He’s firmly planted in his suite, looking quite stately in his tuxedo, and will most assuredly marry you at the appointed time.” He looks at Grant. “Wait… did you call him ‘Egg’?”

“Yeah, it’s what we call him,” Grant laughs.

“Used to call me,” I correct.

“That’s a horrid name.” Sherlock shakes his head. “I’ll have to delete it.”

Grant shakes his head. “I was under the assumption that Doctor Watson made up a lot of your eccentricities in his stories.”

“We wish,” I say. I stand up, shuck my dressing gown, and pull on the trousers. I shouldn’t be surprised that they fit so well, given all the poking and prodding and measuring I went through, but I am amazed at just how perfect they are.

“That’s right nice, that,” Grant says, with an appreciative glance. “Always was jealous that you got the better arse than the lot of us.”

“You got the bigger cock, so shut up,” I tease. Embarrassing to admit now, but we were a very competitive lot back in those days, four boys crowded into one bedroom, so there was a lot of measuring and preening, and trying to one-up each other at every turn.

“How gauche,” Sherlock comments with a frown of distaste.

“We were young, and dumb,” Grant says, blushing. “And I’m jealous that you get a designer tuxedo, and I’m stuck in my blues.”

“When you’ve got it, flaunt it.” I put on the shirt, and button it. “Your blues are bespoke. I found that out when I was reading the history of James Bond.”

“Of course you did, you research nerd. And they are hand-tailored to fit, but they’re not James Bond caliber.” He pushes my hands aside, and unbuttons the shirt.

I look down and see that I’ve buttoned it wrong. “Nerves.”

“It’s like you’re a toddler. Tuck.”

I tuck my shirt in, and do up the trousers. Grants slips the braces over my shoulders, and smiles. “Looking mighty fancy, Egg.”

“Stop calling me that, or I’m going to toss you over the terrace.”

“Egg,” Sherlock smirks.

“Yeah, all right, Bunny-boy,” I shoot back, and smile at the blush on his cheeks. “Make yourself useful, and get my shoes.”

“Is there a ring I should be holding?” Grant steps in front of the mirror and makes adjustments to his medals.

“No rings,” I say. “I’ve got a watch, and he’s getting a… thing.”

“A thing?” he frowns. “Why not a ring?”

“Because my brother is a master spy with enemies,” Sherlock says, dropping my shoes on top of my feet. “If they find out that the Iceman has a weakness… well, other than me, they’ll exploit it.”

“Ouch,” I say with a glare at him. I step into the shiniest shoes I’ve ever worn, and smile at how well they fit. Years of walking for work has all but ruined my feet. “We’re keeping it hush-hush for now, Grant.”

“Oh.” Grant turns to me with a look of concern. “So… you’re marrying a man whose nickname is Iceman, and he’s got enemies who will possibly kill you should they find out you’re married?”

“I know it sounds… well, it doesn’t sound all the good when you say it out loud, but it’s… it’ll be all right.” I blow out a breath. “I trust him, Grant. With my whole heart.”

“Yeah, all right, Greg,” he concedes with a dark look in Sherlock’s direction. “But if something happens to you, I’ll hunt him down and make him pay.”

“You can try,” Sherlock laughs.

“He may be all powerful, but the Lestrade boys are relentless.”

“My brother won’t let anything happen to… Geoff… erm, Lestrade.” Sherlock looks at me. “He’s besotted, and will wrap his husband in cotton for at least a year.”

“And what good will that do?” Grant demands. “If there’s a threat to Greg’s safety, then maybe he shouldn’t –”

“Right,” I cut in before they start sniffing each other’s arses. “No one’s wrapping anyone in anything, and I’m getting married in fifteen minutes. Help me with these cufflinks, Grant.”

“Fancy… what are these, sapphires?” He clips them on, and then drops my tie under my collar. “You are one good looking bloke, Allain.”

“Oi,” I grumble. “Stop trying to wind me up, Antoine.”

“What were our parents thinking?” I laugh. “Mum watched way too much telly back then. Who names their daughter Greer? Weird. Poor Gordon, though. Anatole is the worst.”

“Not according to Gabe. He won’t even use Ambrose… I think he got it legally loped off. Not that I blame him.” Grant shakes his head and loops the tie around my neck, fixing it into a neat bow. “Who’s taking whose name?”

“No one’s name is changing.” Mycroft and I had this same conversation with the minister this morning, and it ended in frustration and a shared cigarette. “Only thing that’s changing is my address.”

“It isn’t all that uncommon these days,” Sherlock says with an eye roll. “Lots of same-sex couples do it. Lestrade-Holmes doesn’t sound as nauseating as I thought it would.”

“Yes, it is.” I look in the mirror and frown. “Do I look all right? I feel… I dunno… I look strange.”

“You look bloody rich, that’s all.” Grant helps me into my jacket. “Like Cary Grant or James Bond. Well, maybe Bond later in life, with all that grey.”

“You’re not far behind, lad,” I say, eyeing the mostly grey hair on his head. I take in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “All right… I think I’m ready.”

“Wait.” Sherlock goes over and opens the refrigerator in the corner. “You’re to wear this.”

I look at the flower he’s holding out. “Am I?”

“Yes.” He frowns. “It’s not poison ivy. And Mycroft has one just like it.”

“From…?”

“Wherever flowers come from,” he says, and I see a blush creeping up his neck. “A florist, they’re called.”

“I know that… I mean, where did you get it? It’s blue, and perfect. Did Mycroft do this, or was it Andrea?”

Grant frowns at me. “What does it matter? It’s your boutonniere. You’ll wear it.”

“Oh, it matters,” I say, still looking at Sherlock. “Something you want to tell me, Sherlock?”

“Yes. Pin it on your lapel and shut up.”

“Is it from you?” I ask, trying hard not to smile.

“Yes, Lestrade, it would seem so.” He’s speaking faster now, and sounds a bit churlish. “Do you want it or not?”

“Of course I want it,” I say gently. “I’m just surprised. I thought you didn’t do sentiment.”

“I don’t.” He steps over, snatches the boutonniere from me, and pins it to my lapel. “I despise it, despise you, and I especially despise Mycroft, for involving me in all this caring nonsense.”

“Yet, you didn’t do a runner.” I look down at the flower (that he’s pinned to my lapel perfectly, the tosser}, and then back up at him. “It’s blue. And it smells like grapes. What is it?”

“Dear god, you’re absolutely worse than John with the pointless questions. If you must know, it’s a blue muscari or blue magic, also known as grape hyacinth. Originated in Turkey in 1871. My mother said it’s traditional for the groomsman to give a boutonniere to the groom, but it’s seems that she has once again, managed to deceive me.”

I love that his mum can manipulate him, consulting detective be damned. “Very thoughtful of you.” I tug him into a brief hug, and step back. “Thank you. Reminds me of Mycroft’s eyes.”

“Ugh,” Sherlock groans, and pins a white rose to his own lapel. “I knew you would say something disgustingly sentimental like that. At any rate, I wanted you and my loathsome brother to have something unique, and so there you have it.”

“That’s nice gesture,” Grant says. “You’re a great brother, and already a good brother-in-law. Where’s mine?”

“You’ve got medals,” Sherlock says with a great roll of his eyes. “And since you’re both being tediously **_Lestrades,_** I’m leaving. Please try not to have another melt down, Gavin. We’re all counting on you to put Mycroft out of his misery.”

He’s out the door before I can respond. “Tosser.”

“You don’t find it weird that he can’t remember your name?” Grant picks up his hat and tucks it under his arm. “How hard can it be to say Greg?”

“You’ve read John’s blog. He’s… hell, they’re all strange. Wait until you meet the parents.”

“Good job you’re marrying into the family, and not me, I suppose.” He looks at me. “All set then?”

“Um… Yes.” I shake my head. “No.”

“Greg…”

“I’m all right. Just… I got what I wanted. I’ve got my family here, I’m marrying Mycroft, and… I feel… I don’t… like I can’t breathe or summat. Like I’m drowning. Or having a heart attack.”

“You are not having a heart attack, Greg. Panicking, is all. Just breathe in and out. Slowly.”

I take in a few deep breaths, and shake my head. “Heart’s pounding.”

“All right… let me help you. Come on…” He drops his hat, and tugs me into an embrace, holding me tightly, breathing with me.

“… you haven’t done this since –”

“I know,” he says quietly. “Always calms you right down, though, doesn’t it?”

“Hm,” is all I can manage without choking on the emotion I feel rising in my throat. Of all my siblings, Grant is the most sensitive. He used to do this all the time when I’d come home from school after a day of being bullied. He has about five then, but he knew when I was trying to hide my feelings so I wouldn’t upset my mum. He’d climb on my bed, and hug me until I felt better. It worked on my colicky nephew, and it’s working on me now. Cheeky bugger. I lift my head from his shoulder, and look at us in the mirror, two grey heads pressed together – brotherly love at its finest, and just what I needed today. It’s going to be all right. I’m going to down there and I’m going to marry my love, and it’s going to be fine. “Let go.”

“You sure?”

“Grant.”

“Yeah, all right.” He drops his arms and steps back. “Feel better?”

“Tosser,” I say, but there’s no heat to my words. I put a hand on his shoulder and squeeze. “Thanks.”

“That’s why they call it a ‘best’ man. So, let’s go get married, yeah?”

“Yeah.” I put the slip of paper I’ve written my vows on in my pocket, and smile. “I’m ready.”

“Hey, ah… before we go…” He ducks his head shyly. “Is, ah… that Anthea single?”

“What?”

“Your Mycroft’s assistant. Is she single? She’s gorgeous.”

“She could snap your neck like a twig, mate,” I laugh.

“I know.”

“Oh, you still like them dangerous, do you?”

“Oh, aye, just like an old sea dog, I am,” he says with a growly accent. “Maybe some of your good luck will rub off on me, and she’ll do the same.”

“Oi! Don’t be crass. Andy’s a gem. And Mycroft is very protective of her, so watch it.”

“I’ll just talk to her, see how it goes.” He waggles his eyebrows. “She’s got on this silvery dress that was clinging to every luscious curve, and her hair was tumbling down her sexy back, and –”

“Yeah, yeah,” I cut in. “Give it a go, but don’t expect too much. She’s married to her work, and there’s no way she’ll leave Mycroft.”

“Calm down, big brother. It’s just an evening. Not everyone falls in love at first sight.”

“Not everyone meets a Mycroft,” I say with a smirk. “Speaking of… we’d better get up there. It’s almost half-four, and he’ll go into a panic if I’m late.”

“I’ll wager he’s never panicked in his life.” He opens the door, and nudges me out of the room. “Cool as ice.”

“Remind me to tell you how we ended up here,” I say as we go out in to the corridor. I stop and take in a deep breath. “I’m glad you’re here, Ant Man.”

“Oi,” he laughs. “Thank your husband for being powerful enough to pull it off. He must really care for you.”

“He does,” I say firmly, and step into the lift. “And god help me, I love him just as much.”

“Mush ball.”

“And proud.” The lift doors close, and we head up to the wedding suite. God help me, I hope I don’t faint…

 

***

**_But I didn’t faint. I walked into the wedding suite, and Mycroft was stood there, talking with his mum, and god, he was gorgeous. Deep blue tuxedo with a kind of shimmery grey… well, no... silver, waistcoat, and a whiter than white shirt. His hair was trimmed and neat, and flopping forward across his forehead, and he looked so boyishly adorable, I couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. But then, my mouth went right dry when he turned and smiled at me – a real smile – and I knew right then that it was the best thing I’d ever done, and that I was the luckiest bloke alive._ **

**Greg jumps as his mobile chimes softly. He picks it up from the bed and frowns at the text.**

**-You’re two minutes behind schedule. Please make your way downstairs. M**

**“Impatient, bossy tosser,” he grumbles, and fires a text back.**

**\- I love it when u get bossy. G**

**\- Focus. And use the lift. M**

**He frowns and looks around. “Lift? I don’t see…” His mobile chimes again.**

**-To your right. Looks like an airing cupboard. M**

**“Of course there’s a lift that looks like an airing cupboard. Bloody spies.” He takes one last look at himself in the mirror, and lets out a deep breath. “Right. Operation Raven, here I come…”**

**TBC**

**My Baby Loves Me by Martha Reeves & The Vandellas

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know... I skipped over some things. Don't worry, you'll be able to read all about Mycroft making the minister cry in the random snippets section soon. It just didn't come together for this story, nor did Mycroft melting down a bit while he got dressed. Soon... I promise!
> 
> Also, liberties were taken. Again. Yes, there is a lift in one of the executive suites in the fore-story, and I stole it for Mycroft's penthouse because I needed it. Don't read this for 100 percent accuracy about anything. But the thing about naval uniforms is true. 
> 
> Pardon any typos. Blame it on the hands. And that my beta refuses to wear his bifocals. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	10. This Magic Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft reminisces on the exchange of vows with Greg, and makes a declaration in the present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from a sixties song by the Drifters, and the lyrics fit Mycroft's thought on this whole relationship and marriage rather well:
> 
> This magic moment, so different and so new  
> Was like any other until I kissed you  
> And then it happened, it took me by surprise  
> I knew that you felt it too, by the look in your eyes
> 
> At least I think so...
> 
> Thanks for Edenlost, who is helpful beyond words. And to Mystrade lovers everywhere - thank you for the kudos and the comments, and for going back and reading my other works - that's so encouraging to keep writing. 
> 
> One more bit in this series coming soon.

**I look up as the lift bell rings. Gregory steps out hesitantly, eyes cast downward, trying to make himself as invisible as he can. I love that he’s not at all intrusive when I’m working, but this is ridiculous. He looks like a manservant. I look down at the sheet of paper Andrea has set in front of me, and frown. “Detective Inspector Lestrade, thank you for joining us. The files and your prepared statement are ready.”**

**“Oh, ah… yes.” He smiles briefly, and comes over to the table. He takes the folder Andrea’s holding out, and thumbs through the documents. “Right.”**

**“Don’t deviate from the statement,” I say sternly. “Is your team in place?”**

**“Sally’s just texted me – they’re all set. Whenever you give the word.”**

**“All right, ladies and gentlemen,” I say to the group seated around the table. They quiet down, and look at me expectantly. “We’re ready. Detective Inspector Lestrade’s team is in place, and I am giving the word. Lady Woodley, if you don’t mind…?”**

**“Of course,” the stately woman to my left says. She picks up her mobile, and barks out a series of commands. After a few moments, she ends the call and nods at me. “All set.”**

**“Excellent.” I take up my own mobile. “Green on Romeo-Bravo-Seven, command,” I say into it. “Alpha team, go. Bravo team, go. On authority Holmes, zero-nine-zero-two.” I end the call and set my phone aside. “Seven minutes to completion, another hour before the story is given to the media. “Detective Inspector Lestrade will meet with the media at eight. Each of you are responsible for your teams, so please check in at regular intervals,” I say to those gathered around the table.**

**Gregory stares at me for a long moment, and then a wicked smile appears. He quickly looks away as he remembers where he is. He’s said he enjoys watching me in what he calls my ‘natural habitat’, and that he finds me wielding my so-called power highly arousing, and if the smile he’s just flashed my way is any indication, he enjoyed it thoroughly. But, first things first. “Hand them to me.”**

**He frowns and looks around, then realises I’m speaking to him. “What’s that?”**

**“Your cufflinks,” I say, holding out a hand. “You know you are hopeless at putting them on.”**

**“Oh,” he blushes. “That’s all right. Sally can –”**

**“I’d much rather.” I tilt my head, and raise my eyebrows questioningly. “Please.”**

**“Fine.” He reaches in his jacket pocket, and gets out the silver and blue cufflinks he wore at our wedding. “If you’d just stop with the French cuffs, we wouldn’t have to do this.”**

**“And if you’d learn to put on cufflinks like a normal person…” I look him over and shake my head. “Also not fond of the half-Windsor.”**

**“Oi.” He bats at my hand as I reach for his tie, and takes a step back. “Not going to have you dressing me like my mum.”**

**“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Lady Woodley says, sidling up to stand at Gregory’s side. “How lovely to see you again. You’re cutting a fine figure in this gorgeous shirt.” She trails a hand down his arm. “Such fine fabric. Silky.”**

**“Erm, ta… ah…” He looks at me nervously, then smiles at her. “Thank you, Lady Woodley.”**

**“Oh, please,” she says, looking up at him through her lashes. “Call me Catherine.”**

**“Yes… right, then, Catherine.” He holds out his arm to me. “Go on, then.”**

**“Oh, do you need help with your cufflinks?” She’s practically purring at him. “Just look at them… they’re lovely! I do so love a man in expensive trinkets. Let me help you.”**

**“No need,” I say rather sharply. I make short work of fastening on his cufflinks, ignoring her wide-eyed stare. “Full Windsor, Gregory.” I tug at the hastily knotted tie, and shake my head as it unravels. “It’s backward.”**

**“Well, that’s what happens when you try to read the instructions, look in the mirror, and knot it at the same time. I figured that since I don’t usually wear a tie for the media, it wouldn’t matter. What was I thinking?”**

**The teasing of his tone causes Catherine’s eyes to narrow, and she looks from him to me, brows furrowed in confusion. “Oh, what’s this then? Mycroft, you haven’t messed about and gotten your ice melted by our handsome and very helpful policeman, have you? Not that I’d blame you. Those eyes of his are enough to make me want to have a bit on the side.”**

**“Stood right here,” Gregory says mutters, and tilts up his chin as I loop the tie around his collar. “And I don’t think My – ah, Mr. Holmes is all that icy. I mean, he’s working on being less… ah, him, I suppose you’d say, and since we’ve worked together for some time, I think he’s getting better at dealing with regular people.”**

**“I think it’s adorable,” Catherine continues. “Look at him blushing! I imagine I’d be blushing to, being up close and personal with such a handsome, stalwart detective such as yourself, Lestrade. I mean, you’re just dishy. I can’t blame Mycroft for fancying you. If I had to work closely with you, I’d be –”**

**“We’re married,” I cut in, and quickly knot his tie. I press the tie pin back in place, and pat his chest. “Much better.”**

**“Wait one second.” Catherine says after a few moments of stunned silence. “Are you having me on, Mycroft Holmes? Because I was under the impression that you, ah... well, that you were, erm… didn’t do relationships. Of any kind.”**

**Andrea clears her throat. “If we could just –”**

**“Oh, no, Miss Smith,” Catherine says. “No running interference on this. If there’s something to it, I deserve to know what’s going on. Especially if there’s a chance it could compromise our mission…”**

**“I’m not sure about you deserving anything, Catherine,” I reply archly. “And since I’ve been married to Detective Inspector Lestrade for a few years without incident, I believe we can safely say nothing would ever be compromised.”**

**Sir Eustace, who has been sitting in the armchair in the corner half-asleep for the better part of the afternoon, yawns loudly and rolls his eyes. “This is all wonderful, but we’ve got work to do if we want to close out this mission…”**

**“Quite so, Sir Eustace,” I say, swallowing my sigh of relief. It is enough that I’ve acknowledged my dear husband in front of the most powerful persons in the country. “Now, if you’ll all review page seven in the file, you’ll see the imminent threat. Please relay this information to your teams, if you would…” As they do as I’ve ordered, I take a moment to steal a glance at Gregory, who obviously anticipated me, and is grinning at me like a child who has gotten all he asked for from Father Christmas. Just like he did at our ceremony…**

*******

“Greg, Mycroft… please join hands, and face each other.”

Gregory’s hands are sweaty as they take mine, but he’s smiling with pure happiness. Reverend Harris smiles at us both, and begins reading Mummy’s favourite bible verses from the first book of Corinthians. Having heard it a million times, I take the opportunity to observe the man who is soon to be my lawfully wedding spouse. Well, at least here in America.

I consider myself fortunate to have found such a man as Gregory. That he’s utterly gorgeous is a boon, but he’s also honest, hard-working, and, even if I am loathe to admit it, engagingly funny. That he isn’t afraid of me, isn’t afraid to tell me I’m wrong, or walk away from me, and doesn’t seem to mind that the Holmeses are not normal makes him invaluable to me.

I suppose that’s part of what attracted me to him in the first place. Sherlock isn’t normal by any stretch of the imagination, but that my brother’s eccentricities (or mine) didn’t faze my intrepid Detective Inspector was a boon for me. He fit right in, helping Sherlock get cleaned up, and gave him puzzling cases to keep his mind occupied, and off the drugs. And he refused any sort of payment, which is very rare. There wasn’t a policeman before Gregory who refused to take the handsome sum I offered to spy on my brother under the guise of taking care of him. Gregory took it to toy with me, I know, but I’ll always remember him flirting with me, even as he was tied to that chair. Had I known that he’d suffered a similar traumatic incident earlier in his career, I would have never tied him to a chair, but he handled it rather well. His bravado, and him standing up to me in the face of unknown danger sealed his position as a trusted person in Sherlock’s life. And in mine, it seems. I am not certain why I didn’t see it at the time.

“…love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude…”

From my left, Sherlock presses his foot against mine. “That’s you disqualified,” he whispers.

“Shut up,” I hiss through my teeth.

Gregory presses his thumbs to the knuckles of my forefingers and gives me a look that clearly states that he’ll kill me and Sherlock if we start one of our childish rows at his wedding. I clear my throat quietly, and shift away from my pesky brother.

“Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.”

Reverend Harris closes the bible, and not for the first time, I wonder what the hell Mummy was thinking with the religious overtones of this ceremony. But then, Gregory smiles at me, and I swallow the sour thoughts swirling in my mind.

“And now, Mycroft, and Gregory, I ask: Do you vow on your honour to share your lives openly with one another in sickness, in health, in sorrow, in joy, in truth, and in caring?”

“I do,” Greg says.

“I do,” I echo.

“Will you comfort one another, be faithful to the other, living not in equal giving, but in equal sacrifice?”

“I will.” Greg says this part rather solemnly, and I make a mental note to ask him about it later.

“I will.”

“And so, standing as one in front of these witnesses, do you vow to protect the other with the whole strength of your being, and to never go along with anything that causes the other harm?”

“I do.” He smiles at this turn.

“I do.” I smile back at him.

“Do you make this choice of a husband with a clear mind and a strong heart? Do you vow that there is no person, precondition, or anything that you will love or value more than the man you are marrying today? Do you give yourself to this union, and welcome this man as your partner in life, vowing to forever keep your union strong?”

“Yes, I do,” Gregory says.

I school my features so that I don’t frown at the ridiculous wording of these vows,  but I say, “I do.”

She smiles. “And now is the time for you both to say the vows you have prepared. Gregory, if you would…?”

He stands a bit straighter, and clears his throat. “The first few hundred times I saw you, you looked right past me, and I did the same. But when I really saw you, saw the man you were, I knew you were what I wanted, and that you would be good for me.  We are very different, you and I, but, Mycroft, I want you to know that my aim is not to change you, but to grow with you. I bring a stronger heart to this choice than I have brought to any other. But I sense that it will grow stronger still with days I live alongside you. I promise to love you unconditionally, cherish you, and for all of our days together, to comfort you in sadness, to laugh with you in happiness, to be a good listener, to be understanding of your feelings – or, ah… lack of them.” He smiles at me, and then continues, “I vow to respect your opinions and thoughts even when they differ from mine, to stand by you in good times, and bad times, through life's trials and tribulations, be honest and faithful to you, and to commit myself fully to you, and to the wonderful life we have chosen to live together.”

I can feel the wave of emotion moving through our audience, and try my best to ignore it, and Mummy’s not so soft sniffling.

Reverend Harris looks at me. “Mycroft….”

I smile at Gregory. “My dear Gregory… it has been said ‘ _Si vis amari, ama’_. But until that fateful… no, fortuitous Valentine’s Day, I did not know how those words would apply to me. And so now, as I stand here today, it is plain to see that you are my destiny.” Again, I try not to frown at the sentiment of those words, and add, “Well, as much as one believes in such things. I offer myself freely to you in friendship, and in marriage. May we share with each other, from this day on, the unending joy of growth and discovery. I take you to be no other than who you are, and I take comfort in the fact that you will do the same for me. I find joy in what I know of you and look forward to discovering what I do not, with respect for your integrity and faith in your abiding love for me. There is no looking back, only forward, and I am certain that we have the perfect foundation, and that, coupled with our combined determination, will be enough. There isn’t any person, or anything that can prise me from your side.”

I feel my face heating up at the words, even though they aren’t mine, they do express what I feel for him, and about this day. And from the smile of pure joy on his face, and the tears shimmering in his eyes, I seem to have chosen the correct words for this occasion, and he knows exactly from where I gleaned them.  

“ _Bene factum, frater care,_ ” Sherlock whispers near my ear.

Reverend Harris gives me a surreptitious ‘thumbs up’, and smiles at us both. “Thank you, Mycroft and Greg. Now, traditionally, this would be the part where rings are exchanged as a symbol of their union. But, If I’ve learned anything today, it’s that these two men are anything but traditional. And so –”

Greg interrupts with a soft cough. “I… I have a thing. Something to, ah… it’s nothing big, just a thing that I thought I’d give you, Mycroft.”

I try and fail to hide my frown of disapproval. “We weren’t exchanging rings, Gregory. I –”

“Hush, love.” He holds out his hand. “This is my QGM, and I had it shaped so that it fits on your watch fob. I want you to have it as a token of my commitment to you, if that’s all right…?”

I take the Queens Gallantry Medal and chain from his palm and hold it up. At first glance, it looks like an ordinary medal, but upon closer examination, I can see that our initials are engraved on the back, an M and G entwined in the curliest of lettering, the face of the Queen on front. It is small, and tastefully discreet, and if I wasn’t standing here in front of all these people, I’d kiss him soundly for doing something that was designed specifically with me in mind. “It’s perfect, Gregory. I didn’t know you were doing this, and I didn’t bring my –”

Andrea, resplendent in a midnight blue cocktail dress, comes over and hands me my pocket watch with a watery smile. I must be distracted to not have known they were up to something. I shake my head and quickly loop the chain and medal through my waistcoat buttons, allowing it to hang at exactly midway between the pockets. “Thank you.” I am humbled by the gesture, and realise that I may have underestimated the depth of his feelings for me.

Reverend Harris discreetly wipes a tear from her right eye, and clears her throat. “And I understand that the watch Greg is wearing was given by Mycroft as a token of his… ah, devotion and affection. Is that right, Mycroft?”

“Yes, it is,” I say easily, and squeeze Gregory’s hand, ignoring the fact that my mother is now openly weeping, and being consoled by my father. Dear lord.  

“And so,” Reverend Harris continues, “if you would, gentlemen, seal your union by the traditional vows. Mycroft, if you would repeat after me… I, Mycroft…ah… Holmes, take you Gregory to be my lawfully wedded husband. To have, to hold, and to cherish, from this day forth, until death do us part.”

I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t repeat her words, so I just discreetly roll my eyes, and take a deep breath. “I, Mycroft Holmes, take you, Gregory Allain Lestrade, to be my lawfully wedded husband. To have, to hold, to cherish, from this day forth, forever.”

Reverend Harris gives me a look of exasperation, but doesn’t make a fuss at my altering her words. “And Greg, if you’d say the same…”

“Right.” He takes in a deep breath, and blows it out slowly with a shy smile at me. “I, Gregory Allain Francois Lestrade, take you Mycroft Holmes, as my lawfully wedded husband. To have, to hold, to love and to cherish, from this day forth, and forever.”

“And so, by power vested in me by the State of California, it is my privilege and pleasure to pronounce you husbands. You may kiss your spouse.”

Gregory leans in and plants a soft kiss on my lips, and pulls away, knowing that the public display of affection would make me feel uncomfortable. “Mycroft,” he sighs.

I feel a rush of affection sweep through my body. Before I can stop myself, my arms go around his waist, and I pull him into a full body hug.

“Oh, look at you, getting all sentimental,” he whispers in my ear.

I shiver and step back, hoping my face isn’t a red as it feels. “I briefly found myself in the throes of some type of emotion. It has since passed.”

A pair of doves fly past us, and out over the ocean. Sherlock snorts out a laugh. “Our mother.”

“Indeed,” I say, shaking my head. “She promised she wouldn’t.”

“I think those were actually white pigeons,” Grant laughs, peering out at the ocean over Greg’s shoulder.

“Gregory and Mycroft, ladies and gentlemen,” Kaye says, clapping. The rest of the guests join in with applause.

Mummy steps forward, a broad smile on her face. “Congratulations to you both. And thank you to everyone for coming to share in our joy. Mycroft and Greg have some legal business to tend to, and so let us adjourn to the west terrace where the reception will take place. Follow the rose petals.” She tosses a handful of rose petals over our heads, and laughs in delight. “Congratulations!”

“Bloody hell, your mum’s a hopeless romantic,” Gregory says, brushing rose petals from my hair, and shoulders. He looks watches our smiling guests follow Mummy from the room. “You all right?”

“I am,” I reply, brushing away petals from his hair. “Just… we’re married.”

“We are,” he laughs. “Shell shocked?”

“No. More like a fugue state.”

“Not seeing the difference. But, just take deep breaths, love. It will pass.”

“Gregory, please.”

“Oh, Gregory, is it?” Grant chuckles. “Don’t you sound like the laird of the land.”

“Oh, shut it, swabbie.”

Andrea steps up beside me. “Here is the paperwork from Sir John, who says he will have it completed by the time we return home. And if you two could hurry along…? I know you’re a bit out of sorts with all this, but we can’t start the reception without you.”

“Give us a minute to get sorted,” Gregory says. “Grant, you go on with Andrea, yeah? We’ll be there in a tick.”

To my surprise, both Grant and Andrea blush, and look at each other with bashful smiles. Well. I’d never begrudge my assistant a chance to indulge in her interests, and I can’t blame her for her interest in Grant. He’s just as handsome as Gregory, and is rather fit. He’s practically drooling over Andrea’s stunning figure in that dress. “Yes, please… go on. We’ll be in directly.”

“If you don’t mind, of course,” Grant says, looking at Anthea with his best Lestrade smile out in full force. Poor Andrea doesn’t stand a chance at resisting.

“Not at all.” She’s nearly giggling as he takes her arm.

Gregory watches them go. “That Lestrade charm will get you every time.” He frowns at me. “Oh, and how did you know to choose Grant over my other brothers?”

“When you named your siblings that day, a fleeting, wistful smile flashed across your face when you said his name, and your sister’s. I would have fetched her as well, but it would have been too tedious for her with the children and your brother-in-law taking on a new teaching assignment.”

“How did you…ah, never mind,” he laughs. “Thank you for using your superpowers to bring him here. He’s my best mate, has been since we were wee lads, and it means a lot, having him here to stand with me. I love you for that – you know, for being thoughtful.”

“It is my pleasure. I am fast becoming addicted to seeing that winsome smile directed at me.”

“Yeah?” He smiles his most winsome smile, and presses his body against mine. “Like this?”

“Quite.”

“You inspire me,” he says, and puts his arms on my shoulders. “I’ll always give my best smile to a man who can fit the words to a Motown song into his wedding vows. Even in your own posh way. You are incredible.”

“I did not think you would appreciate me saying things in Latin, so, after careful consideration, and a consult with my ridiculously romantic father, Motown lyrics seemed to be the most logical choice. Very interesting writers, they had. Their notions about love were very simplistic, and seemed rather focused on rhyming for its own sake, but the ones I chose seemed apropos,” I blush.

“God, look at you, just soft and pliable when emotions are involved, aren’t you?” His voice has taken on a smoky, sultry tone, and I know I should stop him, because I find that particular tone utterly irresistible. “Oh, I want to snog senseless you right here, right now.” He nips at my bottom lip. “So tempted to just hustle you back to our suite and strip you naked.”

I swallow hard and put a hand to his chest, and feel that his heart is pounding. “I am willing to allow you to do just that; however, Mummy would kill us if we skip the reception.”

“I’m willing to risk it.” And before I can protest, he’s pulled me close, and his lips cover mine.  

I had no idea that kisses could vary based on need. This particular kiss can only be described as hungry. Perhaps wanting is a better word, but I can feel the rush of lust that sweeps through him as he practically devours my mouth with his tongue, plundering my mouth with wanton abandonment. And much to my surprise (and dismay at the timing), I feel the rumbling of arousal building in my groin. With a moan, I slide my hand down his back, under his jacket. The feel of the expensive fabric against my palm feels rather lovely, very silky, and expensive, which is evidently highly motivational as far as my desires go, because I want nothing more than to have him on his knees in front of me, wearing only this shirt and a smile. Dear lord…

When I run my nails down the middle of his back, he pulls out of the kiss with a groan, and presses his forehead to mine. “Jesus, Mycroft… I want you.”

“I can feel,” I pant against his lips. “We have to go to our reception, Gregory. Which means you need your formidable penis to soften.”

He moves his hips forward. “Not gonna happen. And you get to explain that your bloody soft lips keep me hard as stone.”

“Gregory.” I sound breathless and needy, for god’s sake. This is madness. “Cease moving your hips. We haven’t time to do this right now. There is food to be eaten, champagne to be guzzled, and cake to cut. Two hours, and then we can go to our suite and snog until we pass out. All right?”

His eyes widen. “Pass out?”

I step back and tug my waistcoat down. “Yes.”

“Promise?” He sounds like an eager teenager.

“If I say it, it is a promise,” I say solemnly.

“Yes, Godfather,” he laughs, and takes my hand. “Congratulations, love.”

I want to frown at the pet name, but I find that I rather enjoy it. “The sooner we kick off the party, the sooner we can leave.”

“I like the way you think.”

“Of course you do,” I say, and take his hand. “Thank you for coming after me, Gregory. This has been quite a whirlwind affair, has it not?”

“Too fast for you?” he asks, his smile bordering on lascivious.

“Not at all. And even if I felt that way, it’s too late, wouldn’t you say?”

“You’re a Holmes. You blokes are quick on the uptake. I love that about you.”

“Well then,” I say solemnly, “shall we go? I am rather anxious to have our first dance as a married couple.”

He frowns. “We’re dancing? In front of people you know? Mycroft, the Ambassador, who acts like he’s known you since grade school is here, and the top donors for public telly… I can’t dance with them watching. I’ll trip over my feet, and cause an international incident.”

“Utter rot.” I tug him toward the door. “We have an eclectic mix of music from the forties, and Motown. Also my parents have invited the local swing dance champions to keep the party lively. Who wouldn’t want to dance?”

“All right, but if your mum tries to make me fox trot, I’m getting an annulment.”

“You can try…” I say, using my best menacing tone. “But Holmeses mate for life.”

***

**“I think you two are having us on.” Catherine’s cool voice cuts into my reverie. “Neither of you are wearing a ring.”**

**“It’s ah, well, we…” Gregory clears his throat. “Doesn’t make us any less married.”**

**And in that moment, I realise that I am madly in love with one Gregory Allain Francois Lestrade. He chased me, married me, and put up with not really being claimed for the better part of two years. Yet he remained faithfully at my side, indulging my whims, and going along with the rules and regulations I’ve put on our marriage. Even to the point where I’ve denied being married to him. But here he is, all smiles and apologies for something I decided. Well, no more. I take the ring from my waistcoat pocket, and take his hand. “Happy Anniversary, Gregory. You would do me a great honour if you’d consent to wearing this ring.”**

**He tilts his head back, and looks at me through narrowed eyes. “What?”**

**Catherine squeals in delight – a sound I’ve never heard from her in all the years I’ve known her. “How very romantic!”**

**I look at Gregory. “I have failed to publically acknowledge our marriage for the past two years. I apologise for hurting you, and hope you’ll accept this ring, and forgive me.”**

**“I, ah…” My poor Gregory is shell-shocked, as he looks around at the faces staring at him expectantly. “Um, sure, sure… I’ll wear the ring. Well, it won’t… will it weaken your position, or give your enemies ammunition or summat, er, something?”**

**“No.” I say this firmly, and with great conviction. “I’m doing this here and now so that they know you are mine, you are family, and should any harm come to you, I will take action.”**

**As those gathered give murmurs of assent, Gregory surprises me by grinning broadly. “Yeah, all right, Batman, calm down. I’ll accept your ring.”**

**“I don’t understand the reference, but thank you.” I slide the expensive yet understated circle of platinum on his finger and smile. “Perfect.”**

**“It’s lovely. Very you.” He looks at me, his dark eyes shimmering with unspoken emotion, and then he smiles and takes a step backward. “I’ll, ah, just be off, then. We can talk about me getting a ring for you in private, yeah?”**

**“Yes, of course,” I agree, but feel slightly confused. I was certain some type of public display of affection would be in order. “Thank you for assisting us with this mission.”**

**“And congratulations,” Catherine says. “Both of you. Now that I’m seeing it, you two make a lovely couple. This must be why you’ve been less willing to leave town, hm, Mycroft?”**

**“Certainly not,” I say, refusing to blush. “It is more prudent to certain handle situations at home, since our budget was cut.” I clear my throat, and ignore Gregory’s eye roll at my words. “Shall we get back to work?” I pick up the file, and flip through it, while surreptitiously watching as Gregory moves toward the door, and slips out with a cheeky wink at me.**

**“He is rather dishy,” Sir Waterstone whispers from my left, also watching Gregory. “Lovely arse, and eyes like fine cognac. You’re quite lucky, Mycroft, to have such a well fit bloke to come home to. And he doesn’t mind working with your tit of a brother. That’s got to be a boon for you.”**

**Andrea covers her snerk of laughter with a cough, and saves me from a rude reply by saying, “Everything is in place, and running smoothly, sir. If you’d all like to adjourn to the sitting room, we can watch the proceedings as they happen.”**

**“Excellent,” I say. “Have some coffee brought up, and see to it that Gregory’s team has some as well.”**

**“Yes, sir.” She smiles at me. “Congratulations, sir. Well done.”**

**I know she’s not referring to the operation, but I’ve revealed enough of my personal life for one evening. “Yes, Andrea. I do appreciate your assistance.” My mobile chimes, and I look down, expecting an update on the operation, but instead it’s Gregory.**

**\- Perfect fit this ring. Love you so much. Wanted to snog you senseless. – G**

**– I anticipated that. You didn’t – Mycroft**

**– Didn’t want to embarrass you in front of the justice league – G**

**– If you’re going to be enigmatic, use it to focus on work instead of vague pop culture references – Mycroft**

**– I'm multitasking. Does it have some kind of tracking thing in it – G**

**– I detest texts without punctuation. Back to work, please. – Mycroft**

**– I’ll take that as a yes!!!! - G**

**– Hilarious. And for the record, I echo your sentiment. Talk later. – M**

**\- lucky me. see you at home love – G**

**I sigh, and pocket my mobile. If left up to him, we’d be texting all night, even though he knows I hate doing it. Hopefully, we’ll be done with this in a few hours, and he and I can share that bottle of Macallan M I accepted from the Queen in lieu of being knighted. I’m certain Gregory will enjoy it, and I can think of no better occasion than our shared love to open it.**

**With a shake of my head at the sentimental thinking, I return my attention to the matter at hand. I’ll explore my feelings of love much later, and in better company.**

**Fin**

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made up the vows. Mostly. I think they're fitting. 
> 
> The Latin, which if you'll recall, Mycroft only uses when he's experiencing feelings: (loosely translated - if you don't like how I use it, too bad)
> 
> ‘Si vis amari, ama’ - If you wish to be loved, love. 
> 
> Bene factum, frater care - well done, dear brother. Or 'good job, dead brother' to be less formal. 
> 
> The songs Mycroft uses in his 'vows' are My Guy by Mary Wells, and You're All I Need to Get By by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. Smokey Robinson wrote My Guy (he loved to rhyme) and Ashford and Simpson wrote the latter. 
> 
> Continuity: Greg cannot put on cufflinks. We established this in The Favour. Greg mentioned his receipt of 'a medal' when he talks to Mycroft about being kidnapped and tortured. He says "I got a medal out of it" but didn't give more details. Now we know it was the QGM, which is a real thing. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Let me know you enjoyed it - comment!


	11. Let's Get It On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the past, It's hours after the wedding, our now married men have escaped the reception, and it's time to get it on. And by get it on, I mean have sex. 
> 
> In the now, it's hours after Mycroft announced he was married to Greg, and somewhere along the way, they hit the sheets. Things get prickly, things get heated, but they'll work it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This bit is NSFW, and contains graphic descriptions of men getting each other off with their hands, mouths, whatevers. Fair warning. Mycroft is an amazing sex machine who has not only hidden depths, but hidden talents as well. I watched way too much porn researching this part, and while it may seem unrealistic, what our Mycroft can do, it's really not. I saw it with me own eyes. Greg will take it all. 
> 
> For Edenlost, cheerleader extraordinaire. I threw this bit away, and gave up, because my aching, useless hands made me feel... ugh. She was there for me, and encouraged me to keep going. Thanks, love. 
> 
> Thank you all for your patience and kudos and comments - this wouldn't be without you all. Thank you!!!
> 
> There may be typos, and other weird things. Scroll past, and we'll get them later. These old hands just ain't what they used to be...

**The smack of a wet flannel against Greg’s cheek causes him to groan and swat at Mycroft, who is attempting to fluff the pillow he’s lying on. “Arse.”**

**“And you were calling me ‘god’ mere moments ago,” Mycroft says dryly.**

**“Needs must,” Greg mimics with a sniff, and even without looking, he knows he’s gotten an eye-roll for his horrid imitation. He sighs as he hears Mycroft remaking the foot of the bed, righting the lamps and picking up the pillows from… wherever they were thrown. _How he can even move at this point is a mystery_ , Greg thinks sourly _. Must be one of those Holmes things that we mere mortals can’t even attempt._**

**“And another shirt for the tailor to repair,” Mycroft tisks, holding up Greg’s tattered shirt. “You bring that out in me.”**

**“Lucky me,” Greg says, wincing as he struggles to a sit up. “Mmm… haven’t had it like that in a while.” He opens his eyes just in time to see a look of embarrassment skitter across Mycroft’s face. “Not complaining, mind. Just… observing.” Greg knows that Mycroft hates the loss of control that comes over him when he’s passionate. Greg loves it – the biting, the pushing and pulling, the utter destruction of their clothes, the bed, the room – even the kitchen once– but Mycroft’s not that way too often. It’s fine when he’s not, Greg thinks, because slow and steady Mycroft is not to be messed about, but when he’s caught fire… god, Greg shivers at all that took place over the past evening - being pinned and fucked hard for what seemed like hours – and groans again.**

**“Here.” Mycroft has got two tablets in one hand, and a glass of what Greg hopes is a dram of gin in the other. “Water, not gin. You need to hydrate, or your leg will cramp.”**

**“Nanny,” Greg grouses, and takes the tablets. He tosses them in his mouth, and follows with a large gulp of water. “Thanks, love.”**

**Mycroft gives an eye roll at that, and retrieves the wet flannel from the recesses of the bedding. “You’re going to regret not cleaning yourself up.”**

**“I’ll have a wash as soon as my brain stops fizzing about.” To Greg’s dismay, Mycroft’s eyes roam over his body, and he braces himself for the inevitable string of observations that will surely follow. “Mycroft…”**

**“I was only going to say that you’re only suffering from an elevated heart rate, but that’s to be expected after not exerting yourself in a sexual manner with our usual frequency. You should let me know having your leg bent in that manner causes you distress. And I’m certain you’re bruised and sore from your unexpected fall from the bed – ”**

**“You landed on top of me,” Greg cuts in. “You rolled us right off the bed, like you always do, because you like it rough. Should start out on the floor next time.”**

**“I, ah… well, perhaps a soak in the Jacuzzi on the terrace will ease your aches. Soothing salts, and aromatics seem to be in order. We can have charcuterie, a bottle of wine, and watch the sun rise. I’ll get some towels and the salts.” Without waiting for an answer, he turns away toward the en suite.**

**“Mycroft.” Greg quickly moves forward, grabs the belt of Mycroft’s dressing gown, and tugs him back toward the bed. “I have no idea what charcuterie is –”**

**“Assorted meats on a platter, served with cornichons, mustard, bread, and –”**

**“And you’re just chattering right now,” Greg cuts in. “We’ve discussed this, sweetheart.”**

**“I don’t chatter.” Mycroft is quiet for a moment, and then he takes Greg’s hand. “Dreadful pet names aside, I must confess that I have never experienced such raw emotion and passion as I do with you, Gregory. And each time I… well, we… it’s insanity. It’s not that I prefer roughness to more tame sex, but there are times when I can’t seem to get close enough, or in deep enough… it’s so primitive, the way you affect me. Just… utter madness.”**

**“It’s meant to be like that,” Greg says with an easy laugh. “And you need to stop worrying about it. I’m not a spring chicken, but I hold my own.”**

**“Yes, you do,” Mycroft blushes, and rubs a thumb over the newly-minted platinum band on Greg’s ring finger. “I might be better at masking my discomfort, but you have a rather forceful grip, and strong teeth. And I’m afraid to look, but I fear that my penis may be suffering from friction burns.”**

**“Oh, my poor lad who loves it when I don’t shave,” Greg croons, and put his arms around Mycroft’s waist. He rubs his face against the silk of his dressing gown and smiles. “That’s bound to happen when you have a marathon fuck session. This is just like the first time you let loose, yeah? Remember…? It was our wedding night, and you bloody lost all sense of reason, tearing off my clothes, shoving me about... one of the best nights of my life...”**

 ***

“Oi!” I’ve barely had a chance to close the door to our suite before Mycroft has got his body against mine, pressing me against the door. “Ah… someone’s glad to see me… Well, unless you’ve taken to hiding an abnormally large courgette in your pocket…?”

“Why would I carry a…. oh, how ridiculous you are.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and squeezes. “I am very glad to see you. Very glad to have married you. Very… aroused.”

“You are,” I’m barely able to stop myself from dragging us to the floor, and taking everything he’s offering. “Feels lovely.”

He brushes a kiss across my lips. “It’s such an inconvenience, as I am usually able to control the instances in which I become aroused.”

I lick my lips as he pulls back. “Yeah?”

“I’ve already told you this. And it isn’t so unusual; simply a matter of focus and determination. It is a skill I began honing in my teens. And it worked… until recently, that is. I thought that I could go back to the way things were after our… encounter yesterday; however, my technique seems to have failed me. And as such, I’m afraid my penis has become rather unruly.”

“Unruly?” I can’t help but chuckle at his phrasing. “Mycroft, are you pissed?”

He frowns at me. “I had a thought that being slightly inebriated would help dull my hypervigilance, and aid me in shedding my inhibitions, but I realised that artificial influences were unnecessary, since you arouse me like nothing in this world. And because you do, my penis has formed a mind of its own, and will not obey me, no matter how much I try to focus. All I have to do is think about you – even a fleeting thought – and I become fully aroused. Feel…” He moves his hips in a slow drag against mine. “Unruly.”

Christ, he’s big and hard, and I can feel every bit of unruliness. I clear my throat nervously. “And so what do you propose we do about it?”

“I propose that I give in to my base nature and ravish you.” He takes my hands and places them on his waist. “What do you think?”

“You already know what I think.”

“I do. However, I am not so absorbed in the science of deduction that I would not want to experience the pleasure of hearing you say that you want me.”

Is that insecurity I’m hearing in my horny genius’ tone? Oh, we don’t want that… “How could you not know what I want, Mycroft? Can’t you feel it? Hear it? Can’t you deduce it?”

“Of course I can,” he says, his voice sounding delightfully shaky. “But… since we… it’s been my…” He clears his throat. “I’ve thought about having you like this, not being inhibited… setting aside my, ah… let’s say my normal courtesies, and taking what I want from you. Part of that fantasy is you letting me do it, you saying that you want everything I want. And also… your voice is rather alluring to me. It’s rough and sexy, and I would love to hear you say it.”

That blush and duck of the head gets me every bloody time. I nip at his chin, then drag my lips around his jawline and down to his neck. “Oh, you do like my voice, don’t you? That’s brilliant, because I talk a lot, and I love to see your pupils dilate whenever I say your name…” I kiss my way up his neck, back to his lips. “I want you, Mycroft,” I whisper against his lips. “I want you to do whatever it is you want. Anything you want, love. Your fantasies, your secrets, things you’ve always wanted… whatever. Be rough, be easy, whatever pleases you.” I stop for a moment, thinking of what he might actually have in mind, and frown at him. “Well. I, ah…that is…”

He presses two fingers to my lips. “No, no… Nothing you’d be uncomfortable with, Gregory,” he says with a reassuring smile. “No pain, no cruelty… I’m not into to anything of the sort. I only want what you’re willing to give freely. And I’d never hurt you. Surely you know that…?”

“Yes, I do,” I say quickly, with a reassuring smile of my own. “I just want you to be happy, and to be free to explore your desires, all right?”

“They’re rather… primitive, these desires. I’ve never felt this way before, and I’m grateful for your acquiescence.” He smiles a quick, sharp smile and takes a step back. “Turn around, and let me help you with your jacket.”

“You don’t want to…” I trail off at his lifted eyebrow. “Turning around, then.” I turn and face the door.

“The view from the back is such a glorious one.” His hands trail up my arms to my shoulders, then around to my neck. He pulls at the lapels of my jacket, sliding it off, and tossing it aside. “I already know what you’re going to say about me tossing your jacket on the floor, but I haven’t time for my usual fastidiousness.” His breath is hot against my ear. “This lovely arse in these perfectly tailored trousers is one of the reasons for my unruly penis. If I could declare it a national treasure, I would do so in a heartbeat….”

I blush and press my forehead against the door. “No one would go along with that…”

“Once they saw it in all its pert, luscious glory, the decision would be unanimous.” He pushes my braces off, and pulls my shirt free from my trousers. “And if not a national treasure, at the least, a cure for impotence. Hands up, if you would…?”

“What?”

“Put your hands on the upper portion of the door.” I can hear the heat and amusement in his tone.

“Hard to focus with you going on about my arse,” I say shakily, and put my hands against the door.

“I don’t want you focused on anything other than me,” he whispers, and easily removes my cufflinks. He places them in the pocket of my trousers, and nudges me so I put my arms down. “But I do understand your inability to concentrate, as I am experiencing the same…”

“You? Never.”

“It’s what you do to me.”

“You do the same to me, love…”

“Yes.”

I swallow hard at the desire I hear in his voice, and try to distract myself by looking down at his long fingers, dancing along the buttons of my shirt. “God, you’ve got gorgeous hands, Mycroft.”

“Do I?” He grabs the tails of my shirt, and pulls outward, sending the buttons careening against the door.

“Mycroft!” I gasp as a button pings against my forehead.

“Primitive,” he whispers, and removes my tattered shirt. “If you’ll recall, I made certain that the buttons were not the typical mother-of-pearl.”

“So you could rip my shirt off like some caveman?”

“As soon as you put it on, I wanted to rip it off. All this lovely tanned skin in a pure white shirt… how could I not want to tear it off you?” He tosses the shirt aside, and buries his nose in my neck. “I knew it wouldn’t be an issue for you, because you’ve thought about me doing just that, haven’t you?”

“Oh…” I moan as his teeth nip at my ear. “Are you… shit… are you going to rip all my clothes off?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He sounds like he’s purring. “But no… not this time…” His hands make short work of the fastenings and zip of my trousers, and I can only watch with amusement as they drop to the floor. “Shoes and trousers off, please.”

I kick off my shoes, step out of the puddle of my trousers and nudge them aside. I frown, thinking how I must look, stood here in my vest, pants, and fancy socks. “Erm…”

“Relax. There’s no need to ever feel embarrassed with me.” My vest is pushed up above my chest, and he eases it over my head. It joins the clothes on the floor. His hands smooth across my chest and stomach. “Dear lord, look at all this tanned skin, just begging to be touched, and kissed, and… you are utterly gorgeous, Gregory.” He kneels and presses a kiss to the back of my right knee. “Oh… sensitive there, are you? Good to know.” He rolls my socks down my legs, and then kisses each of my calves. “So lovely.” He taps my foot. “Lift.”

I lift my foot, and can’t help but chuckle as he removes my sock. “You sure you want to be that close to my feet?”

“Though I do not believe you are prone to malodourous feet, these socks are specifically designed to combat moisture and odour. Other foot.”

“Of course they are.” I shake my head and lift my other foot. The other sock is taken off, and tossed aside.

Mycroft sits back on his heels and looks up at me. “Positively gorgeous.”

Bloody hell, that’s my fantasy right there, him on his knees in all his finery, looking up at me, flushed and wanting. “Fuck, Mycroft… you can’t be looking at me like that if you expect me to be patient.”

“I don’t.” He tugs my pants down, and I breathe a sigh of relief as my trapped erection springs free. “Ah… my prize.”

I kick my pants aside. “Mycroft…”

“Gregory,” he answers, his voice thick with desire. He wraps a hand around my cock and squeezes gently. “I didn’t get to appreciate it in all its glory during yesterday’s session because it was so hurried. And it’s such a lovely cock, large and delightfully curved. Lean back against the door, if you would…?”

“What?” I can’t hear anything for the heavy panting I’m doing, and he hasn’t even done more than squeeze me.

“Lean against the door.” He nudges me, and nods as I settle back against the door. “Now, I must give fair warning that I’ve never performed fellatio before. I’ve done some reading, watched a few pornographic films to get an idea of how to go about it, and used your performance from yesterday to deduce what you might like, so forgive me if it’s a bit… slapdash, for lack of a better word.”

“Slapdash? You?” I laugh. “I appreciate the research, but as long as you don’t bite me… well, you can nip a bit, but no real teeth, I’ll just be glad you’ve got your mouth on me.”

“Good to know that my preparation won’t have been in vain,” he says, his tone dry. “Thorough though it was.” And before I can say anything about his sass (or apologise for not appreciating his research) he just opens his mouth and basically swallows my cock all the way to the root in one delicious gulp.

“Oh, fuck!” I gasp out, and barely keep from bashing my head against the door. I can’t even describe how this feels. His mouth his warm and tight, and god help me, so bloody perfect. Shit, no one has ever taken me all in like this… oh, god… I’m going to die, right here, against the door, with Mycroft’s nose buried in my pubes… he’s… he hasn’t come off for air, either. He’s just got me all the way in and is swallowing around me, and I can’t… “Mycroft…” I put a hand on his head, and I don’t know if I’m wanting to stop him, or shove in further. “Oh, that’s good…”

He pulls off with bloody fucking hoover suction, takes in a breath, and swallows me again.

“Ah, christ...” I want nothing more than to shove my hips forward, but I don’t want to choke him, and as far as he’s got me in, I certainly would.

He groans and pulls back. “Move,” he pants.

“I don’t want to –”

He sucks me down again, cutting off whatever it was I was about to say.

“Right then,” I say through gritted teeth. I move forward slowly, and close my eyes at the feeling of his mouth tightening around me as I pull back. “You’re going to kill me…”

He nods, the cheeky bastard, and sucks harder. He pulls back slightly as I move again, and we work out a rhythm that has us both moaning. Oh, god… he’s doing something deliciously twisty with his tongue, and I can’t figure out how he’s managing to deep throat me without seeming to breathe, and swirl his tongue at the same time.

“God, Mycroft, please…” I can’t take much more of this, or I’m going to come straight down his throat. I thrust forward, maybe a bit to roughly, because he puts a hand on my thigh. “Sorry, sorry… I can’t… stop, love… please… it’s too much…”

He pulls off with slurpy suction, and looks up at me, lips wet and flushed red. “Was I… did I get it wrong? My research showed that being deep throated was the ultimate male fantasy.”

“Oh, god… I’m not complaining, not one bit. You were perfect,” I gasp out, running my fingers through his silky hair. “I’ve never had anyone take all of me like that. You just swallowed me right down, and the way you were moving your tongue… it was brilliant.”

“But…”

“There’s no but, love. I only stopped you because I didn’t want it to be over so quickly. And I, uh…didn’t think you were ready for me to… you know, come in your mouth. Or… all over your clothes…”

He ducks his head, and I can see a hint of a blush creeping up his neck.

“Or maybe you do, you naughty thing.” I grin. “And I was right about you being a fish, the way you can hold your breath.”

“Not a fish,” he sniffs. “But it is rather fortuitous for us that parts of my… training… included free-diving,” he says, and shakes his head before I can ask him what that means. “Later. Just… if you’ll allow me to try out my other technique, which will allow you to move more freely…” He pops the head of my cock in his mouth, and sucks it, while his hand moves down to fondle my bollocks. His tongue twists around me, teasing at the veins on the underside of my cock, down to the base, and then back up to the tip, where he goes back to sucking, with a bit of added spit to make it wetter.

Jesus… it feels like heaven, his perfect mouth on me. “Yes, love… just like that. Brilliant, so perfect,” I moan. I put a hand on his head – to stop him at first because I’m really on edge– but he tightens his mouth, and sucks with more determination. I tangle my hands in his soft hair, and move my hips forward a bit, easing toward the back of his throat. He makes a low, rumbling sound in his throat, and I can feel the vibration all the way to my toes. “Mycroft… love… please just…oh my god…” I can’t help moving into that tight cave again and again, slow and easy, and god, I can’t believe he’s so fucking good at it… “Oh, just like that…”

He pulls away, and plants kisses down the length of my near-to-bursting shaft, rubs his nose in my pubes again, and then down to my sack, which is drawing up a bit in preparation. “Heavy,” he murmurs, and sucks one of my bollocks into his mouth.

“Holy fuck,” I groan, and squeeze my eyes shut.

“Mmm…” His hands are everywhere – squeezing my arse, then down my thighs, back up, cupping my bollocks. His mouth… god… his tongue is licking and nipping, sliding over my cock, around the head, down the shaft, and then he pops me in his mouth again, sucking and swallowing.

I shift up on my toes, and can’t help shoving forward. “Mycroft…” I gasp out. “You’re going to kill me.”

He pulls away with a lingering tug of his lips that causes me to shiver. “Fellatio as a way of death hadn’t occurred to me before. I must write that down later.”

“I better not hear about you sucking some bloke’s cock for work,” I growl shakily, and brace myself against the door so I don’t fall.

“You wouldn’t hear of it if I did, but let’s not dwell on the hypothetical, Gregory. Are you enjoying it?”

“I can barely breathe right now, so I’d say yes. Are you? I mean…well, we had a lovely rhythm going, and, ah… was I too rough, moving like that?”

“In theory, this can go on for hours.” He hauls himself up, and dusts at his knees. “However, in reality, a hard floor and the knees of a middle-aged bureaucrat aren’t meant to form a lasting bond.”

I frown, and then it dawns on me what he means. “I see your point, but it’s nothing to do with age, really. You haven’t… it’ll take some getting used to. Let’s take a break, get you undressed, and maybe I can have a go at you.”

“Of course. But first…” He pins me to the door, his hands on my shoulders. “I was unprepared for how your taste would affect me, Gregory. It’s an aphrodisiac… irresistible… alluring… addictive. I’m never going to let you go…”

I swallow hard. “No?”

“No.” His eyes have gone stormy, and his pupils are dark and wide. “Just that small taste, and I want to experience it all. Are you willing, Gregory? I ask because I know you would prefer to be the aggressor, to, ah… top, as it were. I can see by your willingness to capitulate that you aren’t the type of man who would feel emasculated by allowing me to take charge of our pleasure tonight, but you are a bit hesitant, aren’t you? It’s all right if you are…”

“I’m not fussed,” I say without hesitation. I love that he’s gagging for it, for me, but I want to have something to look forward to when we get home. And… “It’s just… it’s been a while, and I don’t know if I’m… maybe not everything tonight, yeah?”

“Ah, yes, of course.” He looks down between us, and smiles at my erection, that’s showing no signs of deflating. “Fifty years old, with the libido of a spotty teen. How fortuitous for me that you’re so keen…” He moves his hands off my shoulders down to grip my hips. Tugging me closer, moving me against the fine fabric of his tuxedo. “How will I ever explain the mess you’re making on my trousers? I should have sucked you to completion, and had your ejaculate all over my tuxedo like a badge of honour. Rather wanton of me, don’t you think?”

“God, yes,” I whisper against his neck. “Why don’t we get you undressed so that I can make a mess of the rest of you?”

In response, he dips his head and fits our lips together.

It’s soft, this kiss, just a gentle pressing of his mouth to mine. No tongue, just lips, like we’re in some old film. It’s arousing, being kissed in such an old-fashioned way, and I put my hands to his waist, and pull him closer.

He pulls out of the kiss, and presses his forehead to mine. “Gregory.”

I frown at the resignation in his tone. “What’s wrong?”

“It is extremely difficult to follow the directives from my body over those of my mind.” He stares at me for a long moment, and then takes a step back. “Help me with my clothes, if you would…?”

“Mmm, of course.” I pull at his tie, and loosen it. “I’m so torn… conflicted… it wouldn’t be so bad to keep you fully dressed while we do this.” I toss the tie aside and push his jacket off his shoulders. “You kitted out in all this fine fabric with just your big, thick cock hanging out is one of my fantasies I use to have a wank in the shower.” I smile as he blushes. “But… the idea of unwrapping you to see you all flushed and wanting is too much to ignore… I’ve dreamed about undressing you, unraveling all your layers, and sucking marks all over your pale skin… god, Mycroft….”

He doesn’t even blink when I let his jacket fall to the floor. He smiles and unfastens his cufflinks, unloops the watch chain from his waistcoat, and just shoves the lot in his trouser pocket. “You’ve pleasured yourself whilst thinking of me?”

“Many, many times,” I laugh, and watch his trousers fall to his feet. “Step out, and take off your shoes.”

“Many?” He looks down at his feet, and then back at me. “Surely not.”

“Shoes.”

“Yes.” He steps back, still looking at me, and unbuttons his waistcoat. “I’m not what you usually… I can’t imagine what you… I’m rather pale, and I… you pleasured yourself more than once? Before our first date?”

“Oh, fuck, yes,” I growl out, pleased that I’ve managed to confound him again. I step in closer, and push his waistcoat off. My hands make short work of his shirt buttons, and it joins the waistcoat on the floor. “It’s this, Mycroft. Undressing you, getting to touch all the loveliness you keep tucked away. Has anyone besides your tailor ever seen you less than half dressed? No, right? And so…” I shiver as he stoops down to take off his shoes, because it’s just so fucking sexy. I take my cock in hand, and stroke it firmly. “There I am, in the shower… the water is hot, and the glass is steamy, and I think about you, in your club, sitting in your expensive chair, long legs crossed, half-smirk on your lips.”

“That doesn’t sound very sexy,” he says, planting a kiss to my thigh.

“It’s… oh…” I squirm as he sucks a mark on the spot he’s just kissed. “God, those lips…”

“Go on,” he says, nudging my legs apart.

“You’re, ah… on the red phone, and I come in with some information about your brother…” I squeeze my eyes shut as he kisses his way up to my where my thumb is flicking back and forth on the head of my cock. “You… oh, god… you take it, and shoo me away, you know… ah, yeah… like you do.”

He puts a hand over mine, and joins in on my rhythm. “So wet,” he whispers, and his tongue darts out for a quick lick at the fluid that’s dripping from the head. “Delicious…. had I but known…”

I run my fingers though his hair gently. “I turn away, and catch a glance at you in the mirror. You’re looking at my arse., and you’ve got a hand under the desk. I just know you’ve hauled that luscious cock out, and couldn’t wait to touch yourself while thinking about my arse.”

“At my desk?” He laughs. “How wanton I am in your fantasy.”

“What would be the point if you weren’t? And so, I see your hand moving, and smile, loving the fact that you’re jacking yourself while ogling my arse.”

His hands reach around and squeeze said arse. “I always looked, Gregory. Who wouldn’t? So firm and round, and tempting, this arse. Quite the distraction...”

“Not you,” I chuckle.

“Recently, yes. But do go on with your fantasy… I’m enjoying it.”

“Where was I… oh, yes… I catch you perving on my arse, and turn back. I ask if you like what you see, and you blush and scoot your chair back, and your cock is standing up straight and firm, with your long fingers wrapped around it, and I’m lost. I stalk over to you, grab you by the tie, and kiss you senseless.”

“Senseless?” He presses a line of kisses along my cock, and then looks up at me. “Ambitious.”

“In… ah, jesus… inspired…Oh, Mycroft, that feels so good,” I hiss as he does it again. “You’re certain you haven’t done this before?”

He frowns and sits back on his heels. “Am I certain I haven’t been this close to another man’s genitals before?”

***

**“Your subtle way of asking if I’d been a tart,” Mycroft says, sprinkling a handful of blue salt into the steaming water.**

**“I couldn’t think properly,” Greg defends. “And you were so bloody good at it on your first go…what else was I to think?”**

**“You might have remembered me mentioning that I’d done extensive research,” Mycroft sighs, swirling a hand in the water.**

**Greg rolls his eyes at that. “But I digress…”**

*******

I take note that his tone has gone a bit frosty, he’s said ‘genitals’ rather primly, and that his hands are nowhere near my arse. “Oh, bollocks… that’s not what I meant, love… just, you’re so perfect at it, and I tend to forget you’re a Holmes because you aren’t an arse like Sherlock and… I’m sorry.”

“How fortuitous for you that I can be very forgiving when I want to be,” he says with a smirk, and then before I can say anything, he’s swallowed my cock down again.

“Mycroft!” I shout, and steady myself by clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, love… yes, just like that... mmm…”

He pulls back, takes a breath, and goes in again, this time with more suction.

 _Don’t look down_ , I tell myself, _or you’ll lose it_. I screw my eyes shut, and just let him do what he wants. He deep throats me and pulls off so many times, I lose count (and nearly consciousness), and I can feel myself getting dizzy with trying not to come, trying to last while he does what he wants. But dear god, I can’t… fucking hell, I need to come. I can feel it all the way to my bloody toes. “Oh, Mycroft…” I put a hand to his head. “Ah… you should... oh, god, Mycroft…I’m so close…”

“Mmm…” he hums, and again, I feel the vibration through to my bollocks. He slides his mouth off my cock with a tight sucking, and looks at me, eyebrow raised, lips wet and slightly swollen, eyes bright with wanting.

“Fuck,” I pant, wanting nothing more than to sink to the floor and finish it.

“I find pleasuring you rather arousing,” he says with a sly smile. “Hearing you moan my name like that, desperate to bury yourself as deep in my mouth as you can is a great aphrodisiac. I would like to continue this in the comfort of the bed, if you’re amenable.”

“Oh, I’m very amenable,” I say, eager to get him under me and make him do some moaning of his own. I grab his arm, and pull him up from the floor. “You are amazing, Mycroft. Prim and proper on the outside, but right naughty when the door closes. I’m just chuffed you’re mine.” I press against him, rubbing my hands along his back, pushing his vest up, wanting to feel his soft skin. “What’s this, then?” I push against his cock, which is about to burst out of his pants. “God, you feel lovely. Hard and eager, aren’t you…?”

“Gregory,” he moans, and moves his hips forward sharply. “This is intolerable.”

I chuckle at his phrasing. “You asked to be in charge… what do you want to do with me?”

“Everything.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“I can’t… focus.” He shakes his head. “There are too many sensations, too many things I want, and I don’t… well, I can’t concentrate enough to make my mind and body work together.”

“Sounds like arousal to me.” I kiss him lightly, and pull back. “And it’s what you’re meant to be feeling. Stop trying to make sense of it, and do what your body’s telling you to…. you know, like you did when we first came in? I liked that, you taking what you want.”

“Do you?” He looks at me with a look of pure lust in his eyes. “I don’t want to disappoint you…” He latches his lips onto the spot between my neck and shoulder, and sucks hard.

“Never,” I moan and grab his arms to steady myself as he backs me against the arm of the sofa. “God, Mycroft…”

He lets go, and licks at the mark he’s made. “So sweet, your skin. Tastes like fine honey. Irresistible…” He kisses my throat, down my chest, and rubs a cheek against my chest hair. “Very soft, this hair. And what’s this…? A lovely nipple, just waiting to be sucked…” He brushes his long fingers across my nipple and I can’t help arching into his touch.

“Mycroft…” I pull him in closer. “Why are you still wearing pants? I want to feel you. Please.” I tug at his boxers, trying to push them down. “Please?”

He laughs and shoves his pants down and off, and presses his cock up against mine. “Like this?”

“Oh, that’s just brilliant,” I gasp, as he grinds against me. “Keep doing that.”

“If you… can you have more than one orgasm in a night?” he pants, moving faster.

“I already told you…” I push his vest up, and latch on to his right nipple. I suck greedily, feeling giddy as his hands press my head against his chest.

“I can’t… ah, yes... three times is what you boasted.”

I flick my tongue over his nipple again, and smile when he shudders in response. “Not boasting.” I reach down, and take both of our cocks in hand. “Can _you_ come more than once in a night?”

“Gregory… oh, dear lord, your hands…”

It’s a stretch, because his cock barely fits in my hand while I’m holding my own, but I manage to get a good hold and start a nice rhythm going. “Can you?”

“A bit more pressure, if you would… yes, like that…” He puts a hand on top of mine, and changes the tempo, slowing me down a bit. “Just perfect…” He clears his throat. “We may need to run consecutive tests to get results.”

“Anything for you, love,” I say, nipping at his ear.

“I hate pet names,” he says in that haughty way of his.

“That tone would work if your hands weren’t squeezing my arse.”

“One can’t help it. In fact…” He moves his hand to my shoulders and gives me a push.

“Oi!” I fall back on the sofa, legs splayed open.

“Perfect.” He whips his vest over his head, and tosses it aside. He moves my legs a bit, and settles on top of me. “Just lovely. I’m not sure what I want to do with you.”

I reach out a hand and rub his stomach, which is covered with silky dark hair. “So bloody gorgeous, Mycroft.”

“You are not only handsome, but are also incredibly kind,” he says with a rueful shake of his head.

“Look how perfectly we fit together…” I roll my hips upward, and grin as his eyes go wide at the touch of his cock against mine. “Feels good, yeah?”

“Stop talking, Gregory. Allow me to focus.” He shifts his hips downward, and slips his cock between my arsecheeks. “Exquisite,” he growls, pressing forward.

As the head of his cock slips back and forth against my arsehole, I feel myself panicking at the thought of him trying to fit that monster in me without any type of lube or preparation… shit. It’s been ages since I’ve been with a bloke, and even longer since I’ve let a bloke fuck me. I shift away nervously and put a hand to his thigh. “Mycroft…”

He bends and takes my earlobe between his teeth. “Relax, Gregory,” he whispers, his voice low and silky. “It would take hours to get you loosened up enough to take me. And you’ve just said not everything in one night.”

“I know… just. Sorry. I’m nervous.”

“No need to be. I may have watched an ungodly amount of frighteningly unrealistic pornography over the past few days, but I am aware we can’t have intercourse without lubricant. And as I’ve already said,  I would never hurt you, Gregory.”

“I know, Mycroft. It’s just… we’re so heated, I wasn’t certain what you… it’s fine. I’m good. Snog away.”

He snorts at that, but takes my hands and laces his fingers with mine. “Frottage is the act of taking a rubbing from an uneven surface to form a work of art.”

“Is that what we’re doing?”

“I prefer the term frottage to snogging.” He takes my cock in one hand, and shifts, this time, he presses his cock against the bottom of my bollocks, and sweet lord, it feels like heaven.

“A few more twists of your hand, and I’m going to come,” I manage between moans. “I’ve been hard since we said our vows.”

“So you have,” he says with a wicked grin. “And that’s down to me? How flattering.” He leans down and kisses me, softly at first, and then more roughly as I arch upward. His lips wrench away from mine. “Oh, dear lord, this feels like heaven… the heat of arousal, the warring of my mind and body… I can’t seem to get close enough to you…”

I unhook our fingers, and settle my hands on his arse, tugging him forward roughly. “Come on… harder, Mycroft… “

“Mmm…” he groans, and thrusts his cock up between my cheeks again and again. “The sensations are so deliciously overwhelming… I’ve dreamed of doing this with you, and had no idea the reality would be far greater than my fantasies…”

“Mine, too,” I gasp out, as he tightens his hand on my cock. “That’s it, just like that…”

“Yes, yes,” he groans, and shoves his hips forward so hard that I slide halfway off the sofa.

I laugh and put a hand on the floor to stop myself falling. I look up at him, but his eyes are shut tightly, and he’s got a look of intense concentration on his face. “Mycroft.”

He opens his eyes, and lifts an eyebrow. “Perhaps the floor would be better…” He moves forward, nudging me off the sofa, and onto the floor. The side table lamp falls to the floor, and we knock against the coffee table, scattering the cards and gifts set there. “Shift up.”

“Yes, master,” I say drily, and scoot upward, away from the table. “Carpet burns are so not on…”

“The way your delectable cock is leaking all over,” he says, his voice gone silky and seductive, “I’d say less than two minutes.”

“You’re certain about that?”

“Of course,” he says shortly, and swirls his long finger in the flood of fluid coming from my cock. “Perfect. Hold still, if you can.” He moves back to sit on my legs, flashes me a brief, wicked smile, and then he swallows my cock to the root.

“Oh, you bastard,” I growl out, and try to shift upward. Him sitting on my legs is making it hard to do anything other than breathe and grab his hair. “Fuck, that feels good…”

“Mmm…” I can feel that deep rumbling all the way to my toes. His snakes a hand between my arsecheeks, and swirls his finger around my hole, which I clench in response. He pulls off my cock, and looks up at me. “Relax, Gregory.”

“I was,” I pant.

He smiles reassuringly, and swirls his finger again, moving it around, then up to the spot below my bollocks, where he presses lightly. “So responsive,” he whispers, sliding his finger back down to my hole. “I can’t wait to shove my tongue in this tight hole alongside my fingers. You’d arch your back and come hard, I think...”

“I’m… oh, god, you’re…” I suck in a breath as he shifts back, and slides his cock against my opening, and before I can stop myself, my back is arching, and I’m coming. Hard. “Oh, my god…!”

He groans, and moves forward with a grunt of pleasure. “Gregory… god…” He moves his hands down, and squeezes my arsecheeks around his cock, and he shoves forward, making his cock slide upward. “That’s… Gregory,” he moans, low and dirty, and I watch as his eyes roll back in his head. “Oh, god…OH!” And he’s gone, his whole body involuntarily jerking upward, and I can feel the warmth of his come as it spurts against me. “Dear lord, I can’t…” He shudders and comes again with a startled gasp. “This is… Gregory…”

“Don’t fight it, love,” I say gently, and scoot up on my elbows. “Come up here, let me help you.”

“This didn’t happen yesterday…” With a hard breath out, he moves up, rock hard cock bobbing between us, slick with fluid, throbbing like a beating heart. “This can’t be… oh!”

I rub his back as he shivers through a dry orgasm. “Must have been really good to you, squeezing my arse around your cock like that…”

He buries his head against my neck. “Dear lord…it’s just –”

“It’s bloody sexy, is what it is,” I whisper, and tighten my arms around him. “Only you could have tantric orgasms the second time we get naked. And I love it, love that you’ve never come with anyone other than me, and that you trust me enough to let go and let it happen.”

“Yes, well, I figure it can’t get any more embarrassing than this,” he says with an eye roll. “And unfortunately, tantric orgasms were not included in my research.”

“This is what happens when you do that mind over matter shite,” I say with a shake of my head. “You’re meant to have sex, to have orgasms, and just let go sometimes. Not that I’m not pleased that you waited for me… because you feel so good on top of me… I can’t wait for you to fuck me, for you to come inside me…”

“Gregory…” he manages to gasp out. “I’m still aroused. This can’t be normal.”

“You are definitely not normal, but I love that about you,” I say with a grin. Bloody virgins and their bloody stamina. After a few minutes, I nudge at him. “How are we doing?”

“I…” He blows out a breath. “I feel like I’m dying.”

“You are, only in French. You know... the little death. And because I’m too relaxed, and really don’t feel like getting up and finding a hobo to blame your death on, please try not to die in English.”

“Hilarious.” He lifts his head and frowns. “I’m… this is rather messy. I’m… I appreciate that you’re not bothered by my seemingly endless supply of ejaculate.”

“You’re a Holmes – I’m learning not to mind that you’re different.” I kiss him gently. “I’m pleased that I could make you come like this. Ego boost.”

“I’ve married a hedonist,” he sighs.

“And so have I,” I laugh. “Because you’re ready for more, yeah?”

He ducks his head down to rest on my chest. “Unruly.”

“Thank goodness for that.”

“I need to wash,” he says, moving off me, and sitting up. “I feel rather sticky.”

“Must be a good pint or two that you had stored up, Mycroft.”

He glares at me, but holds out a hand, and helps me sit up. “Exaggeration is uncalled for. The male of the species can’t generate more than four teaspoons of ejaculate for any given sexual encounter.”

“Of course you’ve researched this.”

“Of course,” he says with a dip of his head.

I look at the wet spot on the carpet, and at the rapidly drying semen on my legs. “You aren’t a regular bloke, so your research doesn’t apply here. That’s at least half a pint.”

“Lies.”

“You came like you were being milked,” I say, kissing him quickly. “And I loved watching it. Hot, Mycroft, and sexy as fuck. Not odd.”

“You’re very kind, Gregory, and I appreciate you making it... fantastic is the word that comes to mind, and do hope you’ll forgive my poetic turn.”

“Fantastic is as good a word as any from a guy who inadvertently has tantric sex.”

 “Extreme focus may have been the cause.” He clears his throat. “I fear I’m going to go mad if I don’t shower, so please forgive me for leaving so abruptly. We can meet for more in the comfort of the bed, if you don’t mind…?”

“Not at all.” I watch him stand up, and yeah, still aroused. “Amazing, is what you are, Mycroft. Look at how big and hard you are… I’m a lucky man.”

“You are,” he laughs, and holds out a hand. “Come on.”

I take his hand, and allow him to pull me up. I lean in and kiss him, slow and easy, stoking the fire I see in his eyes. God, I love him so much…

***

**“The water is ready.” Mycroft trails a hand across Greg’s shoulder and drops a dressing gown on the bed.**

**“I do love you, you know.” Greg scoots to the edge of the bed, and slips the dressing gown on.**

**“I know.” Mycroft opens the doors to the terrace. “The entire area would know were the room not sound proofed.”**

**Wincing as he stands, Greg only grins. “Not ashamed that you make me shout, Mycroft. Shouldn’t be so bloody good at it. Tantric sex machine.”**

**“Flatterer,” Mycroft says with a blush staining his cheeks. “Our meal is here. I expect you to be in the Jacuzzi when I return.”**

**Greg turns and frowns at him. “Do you?”**

**“So prickly,” Mycroft responds in a clipped tone. “You’ve already agreed. I fail to see why you’re reacting to what you perceive to be a tone.”**

**“Because there is one,” Greg huffs. He’s silent for a moment, and then he sighs. “And why are we getting into the Jacuzzi at nearly five in the morning?”**

**“To see the sunrise. To ease our soreness. To celebrate our marriage. To relax.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know, Detective Inspector Lestrade… find a reason that pleases you. Or don’t. Your choice.” He turns and leaves the room.**

**“Shit,” Greg says. “I should know better… a Holmes is more likely to be prickly when they lose control and let their emotions show…”**

*******

After a quick wash, I go into the bedroom to discover Mycroft standing out on the terrace, smoking. He’s also wearing pyjamas and a heavy dressing gown, which is very sexy, but is kind of sending the wrong message about where the rest of our night is going.

“Must be bad if you’re out here smoking,” I say, stepping up beside him. “What’s happened?”

He turns and frowns at me. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re fully dressed, and are out here smoking,” I say. “What’s wrong? International crisis you need to solve?”

“Nothing of the sort. And I’m far from fully dressed.” His tone is clipped and too proper for my tastes.

“Yeah, well… having been married, I know that if your spouse comes to bed in pyjamas on your honeymoon, you’re not only not getting any sex, you might be getting a divorce. You’ve got on a least four layers, Mycroft. What’s up?”

“I’m fine.”

“Right.” I look at the cigarette dangling from his fingers, and then back at him. “Mycroft.”

“It’s… Gregory, please. I’m all right.”

“Then let’s get back in bed, and start round two. You were quite keen twenty minutes ago.”

“It was thirteen minutes ago,” he corrects with a sniff, “and I’m fine.” He looks me up and down. “Are you all right? You did fall off the sofa…”

“I was pushed, if I recall correctly. And I’m good.” I watch his eyes shift away from mine, and I frown. “What? You think you hurt me? Mycroft…”

“No, no,” he says quickly. “I… it was… I don’t know what came over me. I usually don’t behave so… this is why I’ve avoided sexual congress. It is too… emotional.”

“It’s meant to be like that, love.”

“I hate when you call me that.”

“That’s why I do it,” I laugh. “Oh, come on, Mycroft…. sex isn’t supposed to be a prim, frosty encounter. It’s meant to be messy, emotional, and good. That’s what we had just now. You’re overthinking it.”

“That’s my nature,” he says quietly, taking a long drag on the cigarette. He blows the smoke upward, and tosses the cigarette over the low wall. “All the sensations, the loss of control, multiple orgasms, not being able to focus… I don’t enjoy feeling that way. God… the thoughts running through my mind, the things I want to do with you… I feel like I’m part of a hive collective.”

“Oh, my god…I’m starring in an episode of _Who the Bloody Hell Did I Marry_ aren’t I? Are there hidden cameras somewhere?”

“Why would there be hidden cameras?”

“Because you’re punking me.” Now I wish I had a cigarette.

“Since I have no idea what that means, I most certainly am not doing it.”

“Oh, I forgot you’re not normal. You’re messing with me.”

“I assure you, I’m not.”

“Why are you wearing ninety layers of clothes?”

“Pyjamas and a dressing gown do not constitute ‘ninety layers’ of clothing,” he sighs. “I felt I should dress, and so I have.”

 _Oh,_ I think bitterly. _Second thoughts._ “I get it. Well, thanks for the… everything. I, ah…” And the realisation that I’m out here after midnight in just a towel with a man who’s regretting snogging me (and maybe even marrying me) is painful. “I’ll just go get dressed. I’m sure I can find someplace to ki –”

I’m cut off by his lips on mine. As his tongue explores my mouth, his hands are on my arse, tugging me closer, and I can feel that he’s just as hard as he was when we first came in. I moan, and open my mouth wider to get more of his tongue inside.

He pulls away, breathing heavily. “There will be no ‘kipping’ anywhere but here.” He squeezes my arse through the towel, makes a noise in his throat, and pulls the towel away. It drops to the ground behind me, and I shiver. He pulls back, and licks his lips. “I feel no regrets whatsoever, Gregory. What I feel is intense desire for you and I don’t know how to control it.”

“I don’t want you to control it, you berk!” I yell, then frown as I remember we’re outside. “Sorry… just… I want it all, Mycroft, and you promised I could have what I wanted. I don’t want some staid, lights out, under the duvet only type of bloke. I want all of you – the curious virgin with the fantasies, the genius whose mind gets muddled by orgasm, and the lusty plunderer who can swallow my cock without a thought. Stop trying to make it sensible, and go with the fucking flow. Do you understand?”

“No,” he says quietly, but to my surprise, he pulls me into a hug. “But I’ll try for you.”

I kiss his forehead and step back. “It’s chilly out here.”

“Let’s go inside. There’s a fireplace in the bedroom. There’s food – Mummy says we’ve got an assortment of offerings from the reception – prawns, crab, and ceviche – along with crème brulee for dessert. Joseph has sent a few wines from my cellar that I think you’ll enjoy.”

“That sounds… wait, your cellar? Well, yeah, of course you’ve got a wine cellar. And who’s this Joseph?”

“I have several cellars – one at the Diogenes, one in France, and I keep my more expensive wines in a defunct bunker in Hong Kong. Joseph is my personal sommelier. You’ll meet him when we return to London, as I feel your knowledge of wine could use some enhancing.”

“I don’t much care for wine, but your mum said you were the King of Wine, so I suppose I could learn,” I say with an exaggerated sigh. “And I am hungry… prawns sound lovely. But first…” I kneel down, and shove the towel under my knees. “I had my own fantasy of sucking that large, lovely cock of yours out here on the terrace. May I?”

“I, ah…haven’t had… no one has ever. Well.” He looks down at me, lips pursed as he ponders. “I know it’s rather dark, and no one is occupying the suites on either side of us, but I worry that my team will –”

“Aren’t they paid not to notice what you do unless there’s danger?” I cut in, putting my hands on his thighs. “If I know Andrea, she’s already informed them what’s what, and so they know what to expect. Well, maybe not that I’d convince you to do this outside, but I’m sure they won’t judge you for having a blow job on your honeymoon, will they?”

“It’s one thing to have an idea what your employer is doing, but to see or hear it…”

“Then you’ll have to be quiet, won’t you?” I lean in and nuzzle at the opening in his pyjama bottoms. “Still nice and hard. I love that about you. Take it out, and give it to me.”

“Gregory…” His voice has gone low and rather sexy. “I… fine.” He reaches in and eases his rock-hard cock through the opening in his bottoms.

“My hands are like ice.”

He makes a frustrated noise, and takes himself in hand, pressing the head against my lips. “Open.”

I grin up at him, and open my mouth, letting my tongue stick out a bit.

He rubs his cock across my tongue, then moves back to lean against the wall. “You have three minutes, Gregory.”

“No pressure,” I grumble. I take a deep breath, and close my mouth around the head of his cock. Christ, it’s been ages since I’ve had a dick in my mouth, but I’m determined to make it good for him. I slide my mouth forward, knowing I won’t be able to get all of it in, he’s so fucking big. But god… he tastes so bloody delicious. Like honey and spices, and I want to swallow him down whole. Fuck. I put a hand around the base, and begin a counter-motion to the pressure of my lips.

“Oh dear god,” he hisses, and puts his hands on my face. “It feels… just incredible, Gregory… please don’t stop…”

I love that I’m the first to be doing this to him, love how responsive he is, how he’s loving it. I take him in deeper, using my hand as a guide, and reach down to fondle his bollocks, which are tight and high. Three minutes, he’s said… I should have reckoned he’d know how close he was.

“Ah, _plus vite_.” His tone is harsh and lusty, and he’s moving his hips forward sharply. “ _Plus vite…”_

I’m a bit rusty with my French, but the way he’s moving, I think he’s demanding that I go faster. I squeeze his cock and tug at his bollocks, while hollowing my cheeks to suck harder.

Thankfully, my hand is stopping him shoving the whole of his cock down my throat because he’s moving fast, and is pressing my head forward – just slightly – but enough that I’m getting a good bit of him in my mouth.

“Gregory…” His knees bend slightly, and his voice holds a hint of warning.

I give him a long, lingering suck, and pull off, moving my hand up and down his length, smiling up at him as he fucks my fist. “Come on, love… let go…”

“Yes,” he moans, and shoves forward hard and fast, and comes all over my hand. “Damn,” he pants. "Just once this time, thank heaven."

“I'm amazed that you can come so hard after only a few minutes. And that was worth the ice packs I’m going to need for my knees in a few hours,” I laugh, and haul myself up. “Seeing you come is... god, very arousing.”

“I can’t hear anything you’re saying,” he says. “My ears are ringing.”

I nod, and stoop to pick up the towel. I wipe my hand, and then his cock (gently – he’s still sensitive). I tuck him back in his pyjamas, and kiss his stomach. “Thank you, Mycroft.”

He blushes a deep red that moves up his neck to stain his cheeks. “No… thank you. It was as good as I’d imagined it would be. Perfect. I fear it will become an addiction.”

“No problem with that,” I say, and stand back up. I look around, but don’t see anyone, or hear anything, but I suppose that’s the point. “You all right?”

“I’m fine,” he says with a smile. “I couldn’t solve a complex equation at gunpoint, though. I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

“Get lots of request to do that, do you?”

“I mean to say my mind is only functioning at… maybe twenty-seven percent. Give or take.”

“That’s like seventy percent for a normal person, so I’d say you’re fine.”

“Balance of probability.” He looks me over, and frowns. “Let’s get you back inside and warmed up. It won’t do for your joints to swell because of the damp weather.”

“Right.”

He steps past me, and then turns and tugs me against him. “You are far more dangerous than anyone I’ve ever faced, Gregory.” He kisses me – hot and searing – and then pushes me away. “I’m never going to let you go.”

“Good?” I shake my head. Leave it to a Holmes to make everything so bloody complicated.

“Yes.” He turns and goes inside.

 

TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is the song by Marvin Gaye. 
> 
> The rest of this bit will be posted soon.


	12. Signed, Sealed, Delivered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the now, there's a hot tub, prickly Greg, and Mycroft coming to terms. In the past, there's the aftermath of the honeymoon, a bit of fluff, and side of Andrea (Anthea) angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a song by Stevie Wonder, and basically sums it all up. "Signed, sealed, delivered, I'm yours..."
> 
> As ever, thank you to all who gave kudos, left comments, and sent me emails. Your encouragement kept me going. 
> 
> For Edenlost, who made it all possible.

_When we last saw our boys, there was a tiff about a tone in real time, and a blow job in the past. And now..._

 

**When Mycroft returns to the bedroom, Greg is out in the Jacuzzi, head tilted back, eyes closed. Mycroft goes out to the terrace, sets the tray of food and drinks on the ground near Greg’s head, and shucks his robe.**

**Greg opens his eyes and smiles. “Now that’s a lovely sight, you starkers.”**

**“I will admit to being surprised that you’re in the water.” Mycroft eases down into the tub, sucking in a breath as the heat of the water hits his cool skin. “It’s very warm… hot, even.”**

**“Hence the name,” Greg says drily. “Jacuzzi is the brand. I thought you lot knew everything.”**

**“Nearly.”**

**“I’m only here for the meat. I know there’s some of that fancy ham on there, and hopefully, some brie. Figs, too.”**

**“There is jamón ibérico, and a rather nice brie made from goat’s milk. No figs, but there is the Aperol Spritz from Italy that you love so much. Joseph indulges you far too much.”**

**“You told him to educate me about wine.”**

**“Fine wine,” Mycroft sniffs.**

**“That is a fine wine,” Greg counters. “You’re just a wine snob.”**

**“Master Sommelier. You’ve seen my medal.”**

**“So I have,” Greg grins, and takes the glass Mycroft is holding out. “Still a snob, though.”**

**“And yet you remain in love with me.” Mycroft sips his own wine. “You would like this one. A Lambrusco isn’t at all dry.”**

**“You always say that. ‘Oh, Gregory, it’s got lovely floral notes’, which means it tastes like roses and leather.”**

**“I don’t sound like that.”**

**Greg shifts closer, and helps himself to a slice of prosciutto-wrapped melon. “Not always, but mostly.”**

**“I thought you were going to leave me,” Mycroft says quietly. “I was quite concerned at the thought of not having you about.”**

**Greg sets his drink down with a loud clink. “And where would I go?”**

**“I have no idea. Contrary to popular belief, I am not omniscient.”**

**“Damn near,” Greg mutters. He clears his throat. “I wouldn’t leave without talking, or without trying to work it out, Mycroft.”**

**“I’m... well, I don’t always listen.”**

**“I’m used to it.”**

**“You shouldn’t be used to being disregarded.”**

**“It’s your way,” Greg counters.**

**“You’ve been married to me for three years. What have you gotten out of it? Nothing.”**

**“I got you.”**

**Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Gregory, I’m serious.”**

**“And so am I,” Greg says. “I’m married to the British Government, the Master of Wine, a bloke who can come three times in an evening, can deep throat me like a porn star, and you’ve just given me a ring that I know cost a small fortune. How is that not a good thing? I mean, really, Mikey, my love… look at us, in the hot tub at a five-star hotel at dawn, with fancy food, and good wine. Where else am I gonna find all this luxury?”**

**“Gregory, be serious. And stop calling me Mikey.”**

**“The day I stop calling you Mikey is the day you should worry,” Greg says, taking up his wine glass again. “I can be angry with you without wanting to leave you, love. Trust me… I’m not going anywhere. I’m in love with you – how could I leave?”**

**“I must admit that it has taken me three years to determine what you mean when you say that. Having never been in love, I had no idea of the depth of your actual feelings for me.”**

**“And are you in love now?”**

**Mycroft looks at him, brows furrowed. “I could be. I find that I want to see you smile, to hear you laugh, and to have you at my side when I am at home. Not having you in bed with me… it hurt, Gregory. Our bed seemed rather vast and cold without you in it, which makes no logical sense, but I couldn’t quell the feeling. And so it seems that in spite of me fighting tooth and nail not to care for you, the feelings I have for you are strong and rather deep, and I am disturbed by this fact.”**

**“They won’t kill you, those feelings.”**

**“All lives end, all hearts are broken,” Mycroft says sharply.**

**“Is that your grandfather again?” Greg asks. “The one who taught you to drink liquor when you were a nipper?”**

**“I was never a nipper.”**

**“I love when you talk like that, all sharp and proper.”**

**Mycroft glares in aggravation. “You’re mocking me.”**

**“Only because I love you,” Greg laughs. He lets himself float over to sit on Mycroft’s lap. “We could fight it out, or we can snog and watch the sun rise. What’s it gonna be?”**

**“Watch the sun rise.”**

**“No snog?”**

**“Out here, with all these prying eyes?” Mycroft buries his nose in the damp hair at Greg’s nape. “Heavens, no.”**

**“But we’re all right to be out here naked.” Greg holds up his right hand, and looks at his ring. “This have a transponder or summat?”**

**“Asked, and answered already, Gregory,” Mycroft says, nipping Greg’s ear. “What makes you think it has a transponder?”**

**“I’m a copper,” Greg says with an eye roll. “I know it won’t do to have someone snatch me up, and you not be able to find me.”**

**“Should that ever happen, I would scorch the earth to get you back,” Mycroft says bluntly. “No stone unturned, no enemy untortured.”**

**Greg looks at him, mouth slightly open, brows furrowed.**

**After a few moments, Mycroft nudges him. “Gregory?”**

**“Are you serious?”**

**“Quite.”**

**“But that’s… really?”**

**“Gregory, please.”**

**“I mean… that’s… scorch the earth?”**

**“Yes. Surely you know this. I don’t understand why you’re surprised.”**

**“Amazed, more like.” Greg turns so he’s facing Mycroft, and puts his arms around his neck. “You’re so contrary, you know? Like, one minute, you’re ignoring me and introducing to as Sherlock’s handler, and the next you’re giving me rings and acknowledging our marriage in front of your power club. What you’ve just said is the most romantic thing you’ve ever told me, and it’s just… amazing, Mycroft. It’s sexy, your power. Gets me going.”**

**“I am aware,” Mycroft says, shaking his head as Greg’s arms wrap around his neck. “And what arouses me is that while my so-called power ‘gets you going’, you’ve never, in all the years I’ve known you, used it to your advantage.”**

**“If I ever needed that type of help, I’d ask,” Greg bristles. “But I wouldn’t –”**

**Mycroft silences him with a warm, sensuous kiss that curls Greg’s toes.**

**“Fuck me,” Greg pants out as Mycroft pulls away. “That’s the kiss that melts me. No one has ever kissed me like that. I’m lucky to have you.”**

**“Yes, you are,” Mycroft says dryly. “And now that we’ve settled that, I have a favour to ask.”**

**“Anything,” Greg answers immediately.**

**“Can we please get out of this water?” Mycroft asks with a frown. “It’s intolerably hot, and I am extremely uncomfortable.”**

**“Oh, love, you should have said.” Greg moves off his lap, and stands. “We can sit in those chairs and watch the sunrise, or go inside, and snog until we fall asleep. Your choice.”**

**“Hm?” Mycroft blinks and looks up at Greg’s outstretched hand.**

**“Focus on my words, love, not my dick.”**

**“It’s waving about so that I couldn’t help myself. That, coupled with the water droplets clinging to your delectable arse… I lost focus.”**

**“Now that’s a lovely blush,” Greg teases. “Come on, we’ll go inside and put the bed to good use. Like we did the morning after we got married. Remember?”**

**“Of course.” Mycroft gets out of the water and reaches for his towel. “I was supposed to be working, and you distracted me with your manly wiles…”**

**“Oh, yeah… my manly wiles. You’re just a great horny beast. I was fucked senseless, and then had to get up when Andrea came with work because you couldn't be arsed to wake up. God, if you could have seen the look on her face when she saw the room...”**

 ***

I wrench the door the suite open, and glare at Andrea, who is stood there with a briefcase and today’s papers in hand, glaring back at me. “We couldn’t have done this by phone?”

“Obviously not,” she says flatly. She looks me over. “You look disgustingly happy. Aren’t you going to get dressed?”

“No, because I’m going back to bed,” I huff, tugging my dressing gown closed over the bite marks on my neck. “And you look like shit.”

“Ta.” She brushes past me and stops short to look at the mess Mycroft and I have made of the room. “What…?”

“Honeymoon,” I say, picking up the unopened gifts from the floor, and righting the lamp. “If you’re going to judge, you can come back later.” I hope she doesn’t notice Mycroft’s waistcoat wadded in a ball in the corner, or that she’s just stepped on a shirt button. “Your choice.”

“So we’re not going to discuss… whatever it was that happened out on the terrace?”

“Why don’t you discuss it with Mycroft?” I say, giving her my best evil grin.

“No, thank you. I’m just... a little warning would have been nice. Poor Sean was on duty, and I don’t think he’ll be able to look his boss in the eye ever again.”

“You’re saying I was supposed to ring you and tell you I was going to… yeah, no, Andy, we’re not having this conversation. Tell Sean that he’s to look away next time. You know… be discreet like he’s paid to do.”

“Or maybe don’t have sex in public,” she says tartly.

“Honeymoon,” I say with a shrug.

“That’s going to be your excuse for enticing my boss to go against his nature, and to have sex all over the place? This is my life now?” With a put upon sigh, she moves Mycroft’s trousers, and sits down as if the cushions are going to explode. She tosses the newspapers on the table, opens her briefcase and takes out a few folders and a tablet. “Come on, then… we haven’t got all day.”

“It’s not even six yet,” I grouse, and stuff my pants, which were hanging off the plant in the corner, in my dressing gown pocket. “What are you doing up so early?”

“Working. You’re very slow in the mornings.”

“Yeah, especially when I’d rather be back in bed with my husband. And I thought you and Grant…? Didn’t you…” I clear my throat. “Didn’t it work out?”

“It worked fine.” She glares at me again, then sighs, and leans back against the sofa cushions. “I’m being rude. Sorry.”

“You’re all right.” I sit down next to her. “What’s happened? Did Grant…? I know he can be a bit of a tit because he’s on that ship with a bunch of blokes, and isn’t used to women. If he… I can talk to him –”

“No.” Another sigh. “He’s fine. Perfect, in fact. A more perfect man was never born.”

“Then why –”

“I hate him, hate you, hate Mycroft, and I hate my job!” She swipes at her eyes, and draws in a deep breath. “But enough of that. I need you to make a list of the things you’d like to have retrieved from your flat so that we can have them moved to the new place.” She hands me the tablet. “This is yours. All set up and ready for you to use.  The password and other information were sent in an encrypted email. When you’re done with the list –”

“Andrea.”

“When you’re done with the list,” she continues, her tone firm, “open the file that has your name on it, and start choosing furnishings.”

“Never mind all that.” I set the tablet aside. “What’s got you crying?

“I’m not crying,” she sniffles and takes a tissue from the table beside her to dab at her eyes. “I’m just…I don’t know.”

“So it went well with you and Grant, then?”

Spots of colour appear on her cheeks. “Quite well.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I’m to fly back home today, and he’s back to his ship. And I wish I’d never met him because I… we could… damn it.” She shakes her head. “Hopeless.”

“Not in this day and age. You’re like the queen of technology, Andy. He’ll just be a Skype away.”

“I know that, Greg!” she huffs. “I’m sorry… I just… I didn’t understand, you know? I thought it was ridiculous that Mycroft Holmes fell for you and went all… wonky. Not that you’re not a handsome, decent chap, but really… it’s chalk and cheese. You’re so far from what he usually shows an interest in – I mean, you’ve got nothing, no style, no taste, and you live in a dump. I didn’t see how he could lose all reason over you, other than to satisfy his curiosity.”

“Ta for that.”

“No offence,” she says quickly, offering me a watery smile. “But I know my boss – well, as much as one can – and he’s like a machine the way he is. Never deviating, always the same. But now you’ve come along, and he’s skiving off, attending ceremonies, entertaining his parents, snogging, and giving Chelsea buns. I didn’t get it. But now I know, and it’s just… fucked, Greg. I’ve had my share of romances and such, but I’ve never been so affected. There’s something to said for an honest man who doesn’t play games, who isn’t intimidated by me, and who can… well. One night, and I’m ready to chuck It all and go and live with Grant in a cabin somewhere and raise Lestrade babies. It’s awful.”

I cough to cover the chuckle that rises up in my throat. “Erm… well, that’s… it could work with you two…”

“It wouldn’t. My job Is quite demanding, and there’s no room for anyone. I don’t do permanent – I can’t.  Men always want more than they can have, and there’s no reason Grant should be any different. It won’t work.”

“Things change. People change.”

They don’t.”

“Then why’s your boss still in bed?” At her look of horror, I nod. “Usually up with God, helping him run the world, but not today.”

“What?” She frowns at the closed bedroom door, and takes out her mobile. “He’s supposed to be looking into… some things…! I thought he was in conference. It was scheduled for half-five. He can’t be having a duvet day when there are things to do, Greg. We’re behind as it is.”

“He’s just got married, Andrea. To a Lestrade. You’ve got firsthand knowledge of what that means, don’t you?”

She rolls her eyes at that, but it stops her glaring at the closed bedroom door. “I get it, really I do, but he’s got to get back, and we can’t… there isn’t… this is total madness. I’m going to kill you and your ruddy brother.”

“Kill him first. In fact, go and do it right now.” I take the folders from the coffee table, and shove them back in her briefcase. “Come on, then. Back to your room with you.”

“I have work, Greg,” she says stubbornly. “I can’t just skive off. Mycroft will fire me when he comes to his senses.”

“He’s not going to be the same, Andrea. And he won’t fire you, because he needs you.” I stand and hold out a hand. “Come on.”

“He doesn’t need me; he’s Mycroft Holmes.”

“Oh, go on with that,” I say with a groan. “I love him, but he’s the laziest sod ever born. And he relies on you to do all those little things he can’t be arsed to do, like handing folders to people right in front of him, kidnapping folks, being his date to all those hoity-toity do’s, and giving lovely parting gifts to men he doesn’t want to marry. And I’ll be needing you, too, since you know him so well.” I lean down, and take her elbow, gently lifting her off the sofa. I hand her the briefcase, and nudge her toward the door. “Off you go. Give Grant my love.”

“But –"

“No buts, Andrea. This isn’t just about your expectations of Mycroft’s behaviour. It’s a bloody rotten excuse for a honeymoon, this lie-in, but I’m taking what I can get. I’ve got lots of…Lestrade… left that I’d like to put to good use. Breakfast in bed in an hour, with some lovely strawberries and whipped cream that would taste lovely on his –” I clear my throat. “Well… I love him, and he’s a dream to lie in bed with. Soft, and quite cuddly, which I wouldn’t have expected. Also, he can do this thing with his tongue that…er, yeah.”

“Too much information, Greg.” She opens the door, and then turns back to look at me. “When I get reassigned, please come to the Arctic to visit, won’t you?”

“Mycroft wouldn’t dare, because he’d never be able to replace you. So, go on back to your room, and have a bit of breakfast. There hasn’t been a Lestrade born that can resist a fancy bird, and a fry up. So, go on, and you know, crap the diem, or whatever it is they say.”

“Carpe diem, you arse,” she corrects.

“Whatever.” I shut the door before she can say more.

***

With a sigh of relief, I slide back in bed, and smile as Mycroft immediately throws an arm across my waist and pulls me close. “Oi… again?”

“The primitive feelings you invoke in me are an anomaly for certain,” he murmurs in my ear. “Was that Andrea? She didn’t stay long. Did she give you the papers and the tablet?”

“Yes, and yes. I told her you were skiving, and I gave her the morning off,” I say, shivering as he nips at my ear.

“You’re not her employer.” His tone has gone cool, and he moves away from me to sit up. “She’s got work to do.”

“So do you,” I counter, “but here you are, not working, trying to get a leg over. And if you use that tone on me in future, you’re going to find yourself becoming very friendly with your right hand.”

“Apologies,” he says meekly.

“Poor Andy… she’s been working her arse off, Mycroft, helping with the wedding, while still keeping up with her own work. And there was Sherlock to see to, and your mum, so if she gets to lie in until noon, it’s a treat she’s earned, right? I mean, will it hurt to let her spend a bit of time with Grant?”

“She’s with your brother? That won’t do at all.”

“I’m not sure I’m liking this tone any better,” I say, sitting up. “What’s wrong with my brother? He’s a good chap, a naval officer, even. You think he’s not good enough for her?”

“It’s far too early for you to be this ridiculous,” he says, reaching for his mobile. “Cease talking.”

“As fast as we got married, I’ll bet we can get divorced at the same speed, yeah?”

“Gregory, please. What did she say about him?”

“She’s… affected, I guess you can say. Not that I blame her,” I add with a leering chuckle.

“Nor do I,” he agrees with a nod, totally missing my tone. “Grant is a very handsome man, with his lovely smile, and soulful eyes. Add to that his military bearing, and trim waist, and he’s…” Smart man that he is, my Mycroft stops and looks over at me with a weak smile. “Not a patch on you, but I can see why she’d be interested in him. You are both very attractive men.”

“Right.”

“You’ve got the better arse of the two of you, and a much brighter smile. You have a reputation for making your lovers scream. Also, I married you.”

“Good save, that. And that screaming thing was just once. She was… yeah, well… that’s all behind me now I’m married to you. So… put your phone away, and let them figure it out for themselves. Just like we did, hm?” I lie back down, and put a hand on his deliciously freckled bare back. “She doesn’t want it to interfere with her work, so she won’t keep him. I won’t tell you how to run your business, but she needs to know it’s all right to take something for herself every once in a while.”

“I can’t make her.” He puts his mobile in the drawer, and lies down. “She’s set in her ways.”

“So are you,” I say gently, “but here I am, despite all your protests and running. You don’t even like people, told me you didn’t like to be touched, and all that other nonsense. And now look at us, going on round four.”

“Five,” he corrects with a blush. “You haven’t forgotten our lovely turn on the coffee table…?”

“Oh, how could I forget? There I was, all ready to open our gifts, and someone’s penis reared its unruly head. I hope we didn’t break whatever was inside that box…”

“It’s bowls – very nice ones, it appears – and no, we didn’t break them. I hope.” He tugs my hand, and drags me to lie on his chest. “There is a word for what I feel.”

“I can think of a few, but knowing you, it’s something I’d never guess. What is it?”

“Gezellig**. It’s Dutch.”

“You speak Dutch, too?”

“After a fashion, and only when I need to,” he says with a shy ducking of his head.

I see a flash of young Mike, brilliant but shy, in that head duck, and fall in love with him all over again. “What’s it mean?”

“It’s a positive, warm emotion or feeling, if you will, of something more than the physical. Time spent with loved ones, togetherness.”**

“And, ah, you feel that when you’re with me?”

His eyes shift away from mine. “Yes.”

“Damn.” I lean over and press a kiss to the hollow of his throat, and feel his pulse racing. I figured he’d be nervous, laying his feelings out like that. “I like that you feel that way about me. It’s good, Mycroft.”

“I’m pleased that you think so. And so, we won’t mention it again.”

“I’ll remind you of it every anniversary.”

“Should you survive me, you can.” He wedges his leg between mine. “Well… it looks like someone is ready for more.”

“Oh,” I moan as his knee nudges against my bollocks. “That feels good...”

“And that’s just the beginning...”

***

**“And so it seems that you’ve survived me,” Mycroft says, taking a sip of wine.**

**Greg leans back against him with a smile. “I have. Still having that gezellig?”**

**“Horrendous grammar and pronunciation notwithstanding, yes. I am pleased to have married you, and even more pleased that you’ve managed to remain with me, in spite of me.”**

**“Not always easy, but I’m glad, too.”**

**“The path to contentment is often rocky, and fraught with obstacles. However, you are quite stalwart, and I hate to admit failure.”**

**“The secret to a successful marriage – I won’t give up, and you won’t give in. I love it.”**

**“It has its merits.” Mycroft tugs Greg closer. “And so now, let’s focus on something other than our history, shall we?”**

**“But there’s more to tell,” Greg protests. “What about when you met my mum and my gran, and –”**

**“No.”**

**“But that second wedding was – mpmphf.”**

**Mycroft pulls back from the kiss, and smiles. “No more, Gregory. There are better things to do.”**

**“Stopping me talking with a kiss is cruel, Mycroft. But I like it. Do it again.”**

**“With pleasure.”**

**Fin**

****paraphrased from the book Lost in Translation by Ella Francis Sanders. I think it fits quite well. If you have a problem with it, write the author and let her know.**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stole Joseph, Mycroft's personal sommelier, from The Wine Show, which got me drinking wine. Also, I made Mycroft a Master Sommelier, because why not? 
> 
> There may be more, if I can get my hands to cooperate. Because there is wedding dancing, Andrea and Grant, meeting the Lestrades, and Mycroft and Greg living together. I'm gonna try.

**Author's Note:**

> License was taken. It's part of what makes writing interesting, I think. If something really bugs you, let me know. And by let me know, I mean ask, not leave a crazy, mean comment about how you thought it should go. (And in that case, you should write your own tale...)
> 
> So you know, the catalyst for this series was Gatiss saying sex was "beneath Mycroft". Yep, until he met our sexy silver fox, I'm sure it was. So, that's why Mycroft is like he is, and Greg is so persistent. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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